


Standing at the Edge of the World

by Myathewolfeh



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Apocalypse, Drama, F/F, Lemon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-30
Updated: 2014-12-25
Packaged: 2017-12-07 00:29:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 126
Words: 504,153
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/741980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Myathewolfeh/pseuds/Myathewolfeh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the whole world goes to hell, the surviving nations must unite to restore order and stay alive. As they struggle to stay together and out of the hands of an Organization that wants them dead, they fight not to lose who they are, and discover love and strength in each other as only ever an apocalypse can bring forth. Contains violence, character deaths, lemon, and lots of drama. Not for the faint of heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. America

**Let the chaos begin...  
**

Warning: Death threats, weapons, anarchy, mention of rape

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating the characters, though.

* * *

**America  
**

_Turning and turning in the widening gyre_

_The falcon cannot hear the falconer_

_Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;_

Alfred suppressed anxious whimpers as he hurried around his apartment, opening drawers, going through cabinets, looking for anything that may prove useful to him later on. Hell, he didn't know what would help now that the world had gone to shit. He packed whatever he could into his backpack, having abandoned his suitcase for it shortly after coming to the realization that he wouldn't get far with such bulky luggage.

As he peered out of his window down to the hectic streets bellow, swelled with distant angry mobs and riddled with the constant sounds of gunshots, Alfred wondered if the rest of the world was in just as worse a state. He could try to find out, but it was highly unlikely he'd get much information. After all, the television networks had gone down days before as well as most communication lines.

He sat at the edge of his bed, breathing heavily, satisfied with what he'd managed to fit into the backpack. As he stared almost blindly up at his cracked ceiling, he thought back to when this all began.

It was a year ago that the world economy had gone down the shitter. Every country was in deep debt. Even China had to admit that he was broke, having given most of his money to Alfred who in turn put it toward solving the economical problems in his country but to no avail. And with Yao having switched from closed market to capitalism a few years prior, the situation only worsened. Every other country after that fell to harsh inflation and limited resources and production which caused widespread poverty, unemployment, and famine. In response, the citizens of each nation rose up to challenge their governments, in a worldwide coup, the very ones who were trying to keep the country together. But some government buildings were completely overrun—or so he heard—and the officials were forced to flee. All those who stayed or didn't escape in time encountered the mobs and were violently murdered. Now, with no centralized superior power to keep order, the mobs were sweeping through the countries, attacking any supporters of the government and burning as they went. Alfred remembered the day he saw Lady Liberty being hacked at and eventually brought down on the news just a few months before. Now, the people were attacking national monuments and symbols, claiming that they were just a hoax to get them to support the supposedly 'corrupt' government. The last that Alfred heard, similar things had happened to other countries, from France's Eiffel Tower, to England's Buckingham Palace and Houses of Parliament, and even Russia's Peter and Paul Cathedral and the Kremlin weren't safe from the mobs' wrath.

He ran a hand through his mussed hair and heaved a sigh. "Damn, I wish I could talk to him." He hadn't heard from Arthur for weeks and was very worried. He was older than him, after all. Probably needed a wheelchair to lug his elderly ass around…

Alfred almost burst out laughing at that before reminding himself of the situation that he was in. God, he wished he could talk to someone— _anyone._ It could be Ivan for all he cared. He just needed to know that he wasn't the only nation still alive.

And his states. His beloved children. No matter how much he searched, Alfred couldn't manage to locate any of them. Not even here, in the heart of Manhattan, could he find New York. Alfred presumed that he'd been smart and fled long before. He wondered why in the world his son hadn't minded to visit him before he left, though Alfred knew the most likely reason for his quick departure was from the insistence of his governor.

Ah, the governor. He had long since been dead. Alfred wasn't sure for how long, but he assumed that, with all the increased activity, he had been taken out a couple days ago. Alfred smiled in spite of himself, chuckling softly under his breath. The governor had never been the sort of man to just give up in the face of danger. The man was as stubborn as an ox. No doubt he would have stayed and continued to work with the angry citizens until his death. But his passing came too soon to have instilled even the smallest amount of order.

And what of his other kids? Had they been taken out by the mobs as well? He didn't try to think about it, but couldn't help worrying. Sure, he could feel it if one of them happened to be killed, but he was still worried. His mind wandered back to the last time he'd heard from one of them—Virginia. She wasn't crying like the other states who had called him; that was not like her. Virginia was strong, the oldest of all the states, and thus had been through many hardships. Still, he could tell her resolve was wearing thin from her voice.

"They're coming," she'd said, her voice close to a whisper, trembling slightly. "I haven't heard from the others since last week. Pennsylvania tried to contact me but…" She took a deep breath and continued, "You've got to get out of here, Dad. You'll get hurt."

"I'll be fine," Alfred reassured, though knowing the statement was close to a lie. "You know that, Red, better than anyone else."

Virginia scoffed at her long-standing nickname, and he knew at the other end of the phone, she was brushing her ruddy locks back out of habit (1). "Whatever. But this isn't your usual riot, Dad, if you haven't already noticed."

"Trust me," Alfred laughed grimly. "I know."

A pause startled him and he found myself yelling, "Red? Red! Are you there?"

"I'm fine, Dad, just some passing people." Virginia responded, her voice barely comprehensible.

"The mobs?" Alfred asked with concern.

"Look, Dad, do what I say." Virginia said sternly. "Don't come looking for me. I can handle myself."

"But—!"

"There's a flight leaving JFK in 2 days at 9:00 p.m. It's bound for Guam. The Uprising hasn't spread there yet, so it's the safest place to be." Virginia whispered, surprising him. "You don't have much time."

"You… you got me a flight?"

"Yeah, I have connections. But I'm afraid they've gone down lately, so this is your only chance unless you have another plan to get out of the country."

A warmth rose in my chest. As much as he wanted to say no and instead come get her, he knew that this opportunity had been gained through sacrifice on Virginia's part. It was her gift to him, and she'd be angry as hell if he turned it down. "Thanks, Red."

He could practically hear her smiling. "No prob."

A loud banging noise followed by shouts and gunshots rattled off on the other end of the phone, and his heart skipped a beat. "Virginia! What was that? The mob?"

"I-I've gotta go, I'm sorry." The stutter in Virginia's voice scared him half to death. Virginia was never one to falter with her words. Then, in a wistful voice, she added, "Love you, Dad."

"I love you t—" Before he could finish, the noise disappeared to be replaced with a dial tone.

He would forever remember that moment, for it might have been the last time they would speak again.

A loud gunshot outside made him jump. It sounded very close to his apartment. Too close for comfort.

He'd spent a whole two days already trying to gather his things and deciding an escape route to Queens. He'd have to cross the Queensboro Bridge somehow… if only he could think of a way to avoid the mobs that were likely to see him as he did so.

Alfred gave an exasperated grunt as he heard another gunshot, this one sounding like it was directly below him. He cautiously crawled over to the window and peeked out.

His heart immediately sank.

It was a man dressed in riot police uniform, though Alfred knew that the whole squad had been eliminated near the beginning of the rebellions. No, this was one of the murderers… a man who had managed to kill a trained officer and took his uniform to catch government officials unawares. The uniform still had several blood stains that Alfred was sure belonged to the officer he'd stolen it from. In his hand was a 12-guage shotgun, which he fired every so often, possibly to keep others away. But why?

Alfred sighed. It looked like he'd be taking the back door out.

Not wanting to waste another second in his now dangerous apartment, Alfred snatched up his backpack, slinging it over one shoulder and grabbing his handgun off the nightstand. He cracked the door of his apartment open, being sure to thoroughly assess the long hallway for any signs of danger and concluded it was safe enough to venture out. He quietly stepped out, locking his door from the outside before sliding the key underneath it. If anything, he wanted to keep those looking for him as busy as possible, and he definitely would not be coming back.

It was almost an awakening for him. From now until this hell ended, he would be on the run.

Alfred moved down the hall with the tentativeness of a deer. Every time he passed a door or turned a corner, he paused and examined his surroundings. Every creak, every bump he made, he stopped and held his breath, waiting for someone to jump out of one of the rooms or around a corner and shoot him dead.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, Alfred reached the back staircase. He started down them too eagerly, though, forgetting that the old steps screeched every time any kind of weight was put on them. He halted, wincing, fingers digging into the wooden rail nervously.

A gunshot went off then, making him jump and nearly drop his backpack. Alfred hunched over, preparing himself to receive a bullet in the head, but being met with nothing. Surprised, he stood straight, waiting for another shot, then proceeded down as many stairs as he could before the echoing of the blast stopped. After a few more agonizing shots, Alfred was at the bottom, just about to head out the back door before soft mutters reached his ears.

"… is he? Jack said he'd be here."

Alfred froze, unable to move, unable to breathe.

"Dunno."

"Well, that can't be right, then. Jack's been keeping surveillance over this building for days now, and he swore no one went in or out."

The voices were approaching the stair cellar, until the door finally swung open and two burly, hard-looking men entered, dressed in bullet-proof vests, and holding small handguns.

But Alfred had already slipped under the stairs, hoping the shadows were enough to conceal the glint of his glasses.

"Dammit!" The taller one kicked the steps under which Alfred was crouching. The nation had a death grip on his own gun by now. "I can't take much more of that arrogant prick, John. Thinks he's all that in his officer getup, staying up all night to 'keep watch'. Keep watch, my ass! I shoulda gone with my wife and kids when they boarded that ferry in Buffalo."

The man named John regarded him with accusing eyes. "Yeah, but you chose to stay here instead and kill off the rest of the Deceivers."

"Ya don't need ta remind me. But my family deserves vengeance for what those bastards caused. Where's Mary gonna have her baby now, hm?"

John smirked. "In a manger, maybe?"

"Shut your trap, smartass."

 _Deceivers?_ Alfred tried to process what they were saying. _So is that what they're calling government workers?_

"Cool it, Hank." John said almost soothingly as he looked around the cellar. "When we catch this guy, we'll take all our anger out on him, 'kay?"

"Sounds like fun." Hank circled the room, peering up the steps. He scrutinized the stairs so closely, that Alfred seriously thought he'd left something behind in his descent. "Now, where do ya figure this fucker's hidin'?"

John pointed upward. "Jack said he's on the third floor."

Hank scoffed. "And how does that son of a bitch know?"

"Remember that officer he found just last week?" John grinned slyly and Alfred's stomach did back flips. "He did more than just rape 'im."

Alfred stiffened. _Oh, God… if they find me…_

Hank, meanwhile, raised a curious eyebrow. "Oh, yeah? Interrogated the bitch, did he?"

"I'm sure of it." John's eyes narrowed. "Our prey wouldn't dare peer out the window."

"Damn straight. Though he'd make it a lot easier if he'd just give himself up instead of hidin' out here like a mouse. Damn coward, just like the rest of 'em…"

"Let's go," John said. "We're wasting time."

Hank laid his foot on the first step and Alfred closed his eyes, finally coming to a realization. _They're looking for me… but the only person who knew where I was hiding was… Oh, God, Sam…_ He clapped a hand to his mouth, suddenly feeling very sick. He fought to keep bile from rising in his throat. The last thing he needed was the puke right now. _I did that to him. Jack… you fucking bastard._

As John joined Hank at the top of the steps, he asked, "So, do you think we'll be able to keep this one… you know, for _recreational purposes_?"

Alfred's nails dug into his palm. No way. No _fucking_ way…

Hank leered. "Heh, you would like that, wouldn't cha? Haven't had a good fuck in a while myself. But ya know what Jack said: the kid belongs to 'im."

A cold shiver shot up Alfred's spine, and the door closed above him. He waited a few moments before he gathered the courage to bolt to the back door. His hand shot for the knob, furiously turning, wanting anything to be out of the building and far away. But, try as he might, the doorknob was simply refusing to turn. He bit his lip and could taste blood. _Damn!_

There was no other alternative. With only two exits in the building, and one being closely guarded by a rapist with a shot gun, he had no choice but to kick the door in. He just hoped it would work the first time. It would spare him a bullet in the head.

Gathering all the strength in him, and willing his limbs to stop trembling, Alfred kicked with all his might at the door. He could feel it budge a little, but it otherwise remained stoic.

Shouting and heavy footsteps approaching from upstairs made Alfred's breath hitch. He abandoned his method of cool, carefully-calculated kicks and instead began to desperately pound at the door.

He gave a startled shout when the two men burst through the upstairs door. "Hey! Hold it right there, kid!"

"No, dammit, c'mon!" Alfred's hands were trembling and his heart was throwing itself against his ribs.

He continued to kick at the door despite the fact that the two men were gaining on him, aiming guns at his back. But that didn't stop him; he knew from their previous conversation that they wouldn't dare shoot him.

Finally, the door flew open, and Alfred stumbled out, barely catching himself on his hands and knees on the ground outside. With reckless abandon, he forwent the careful observation of the city around him and pushed himself to his feet, darting toward the closest cover he could find: an open warehouse.

"Stop!"

"Or we'll shoot!"

Alfred was panting now, heart racing, adrenaline pumping—but no way in _hell_ was he stopping now. He was already so close to the bridge; his apartment was practically a mile from the river.

He turned into the warehouse, running in between rows of boxes to the other end. Behind him, he could hear the two men racing up the rows, searching for him. "You're just _askin'_ for a bullet to the head, aren't ya, boy?"

Alfred slowed in his running until he made no sound when his feet hit the concrete floor. He continued on like that, hunched over behind the boxes, until he was able to slip out the back door and race toward the bridge.

 _Please don't let them see me, please don't let them see me!_ Alfred's thoughts were consumed with worry as he hiked his way up to the road that led across the bridge. He ran all the way to the opening, darting behind an abandoned car just in case and finally gathering enough courage to stop and rest and look behind him.

No one. Great.

He surveyed the length of the bridge as far as he could see. Again, no one.

Alfred sighed. It would be a long walk, but if he could make it across, the airport wouldn't be far beyond. He just hoped he could make it before any mobs swept through.

"Well," he muttered. "I have everything to lose. Might as well have fun risking it while I can."

* * *

No translations!

References:

The stanza at the beginning is from one of my favorite poems: "The Second Coming" by William Butler Yeats. It was written to describe the violence and turbulence of WWI. It also sets the mood for the fic.

1-I use 'Red' as a nickname for Virginia because of the queen she was named after. Elizabeth I had a bad temper, was athletic, and very independent-all the attributes I will use to make up Virginia's personality. And yes, I have named all of the states and you will be seeing more of them later on in the fic.

A Word From the Writer: So... sounds angst-y so far? Good! Continue on, this is a multi-chapter post to get things rolling!


	2. England/France

**The death count will begin now. Just a heads-up.  
**

Warning: Anarchy, character deaths, mention of rape and murder

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**England  
**

_Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,_

_The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere_

_The ceremony of innocence is drowned;_

Arthur sat in his living room, blankly staring out of his window. Oh, look at that. The garden was ruined. All those hours of slaving in the sun (however little of it there was in England)… for nothing.

A hand on his shoulder made him flinch, and he peered up into warm green eyes. "How're ya doin', lad?"

"I'm fine, Lennox, thank you." Arthur gave him the happiest smile he could muster, but it apparently wasn't very happy.

Lennox frowned. "Don't lie. When ya lie, ya make me feel like I'm not doin' my job as a brother." When Arthur didn't respond and turned to peer out of his window again, Lennox settled down next to him. "Tell me what's wrong."

"You know perfectly well what's wrong." Arthur responded with distant venom. "The Irelands and Wales are dead, and the world's a living Hell."

Lennox gave him that damn pitiful look that he'd always hated. He missed how bold and reckless his older brother used to be, how he used to lose his temper at everything, how when Arthur looked him in the eyes, he could see fire, how the man used to hate his guts.

"Don't look at me like that!" Arthur snapped, not knowing exactly why. Lennox was the only one he had left, as far as he knew. "I'm not beaten. Not yet. Not until they hunt me down and fight me to death."

Lennox lifted a bushy red eyebrow. "You're not implyin' you're stayin' here, are ya?"

Arthur stood, feeling his head pound with frustration. All this time, since he'd found his other brothers dead and Scotland alive, he'd been trying to get Lennox to leave. Even though Lennox was technically the big brother, Arthur's country was the only one that wasn't completely in ruins. And the Queen was still alive, as far as he knew, still here, like him, and he was determined to stay. "If you're going to just sit here and console me, then don't. I've ordered you to leave this place numerous times, but still, you stand here, looking at me like there's still hope left! I won't have it! I won't have the last of my family killed!"

Lennox didn't look in the least bit scared, which managed to tick Arthur off even more. He just kept staring at him with those sympathetic eyes. "You've already given up, then?"

Arthur clenched his fists, seething. "You blasted idiot! Don't you see? We're too far gone to bounce back, not from this. That's why you need to leave."

"And you're stayin', I presume?"

"Yes!" Arthur was shouting now, though he didn't quite know why. "Of course! The only thing for me to do now is stay here. Don't you see, Len? This is my end. Parliament is destroyed, the Palace is overrun, London is in shambles, anyone who was worth anything dead. This is how it was meant to be. This is punishment for me, for that time long ago when I shouldn't have chosen to take the cowardly way out. This time, I will go down with my ship, not abandon it. But you, Lennox," His voice was shaking now as he held the other man by the collar of his shirt. "You need to leave."

Lennox held his gaze, unfazed. "This is just as much my country as it is yours, laddie."

Arthur couldn't believe it. The shock, the anger, the regret… it was starting to get to him. "How dare you!" Arthur released him, shoving him away. Lennox stumbled, but caught himself, looking idly at him. "How dare you act so kindly toward me now? You didn't give a rat's arse about what happened to me a few decades ago. You—!"

There was the sound of wind whipping outside, and Arthur turned to peer out his window at the gray sky, where a helicopter approached and landed just outside. He turned back to Lennox, who had a look of fright on his face the likes of which Arthur had never seen from him before. Was it fear or regret? He couldn't tell.

"You need to leave," Arthur said sternly. "Now."

To his surprise, Lennox walked toward him, head down, wrapping his arms around him and hugging him close. Arthur felt his throat grow scratchy.

Scotland had never hugged him before.

"I will do as ya say," Lennox murmured close to his ear. "But only because I know yer too stubborn to convince otherwise." There was a pause, and Arthur was too shocked for words. Since when had he become more stubborn than Lennox? "I love ya, little brother. Be strong fer me, fer our people."

"I will," Arthur choked out, disturbed at the weakness in his voice.

Without another word or glance, Lennox exited the house, heading for the helicopter. Arthur took a deep breath, willing away tears, and turned around to watch him leave, feeling his heart sink at the sight.

Now he was truly alone.

Suddenly, he saw something out of the corner of his eye. It was a slight movement, but he spotted it nonetheless. He and his trained pirate eye. It never failed him.

The figure darted out of the trees surrounding his home and dashed toward the open space where the helicopter had landed. It took Arthur a moment to realize that there were four of them, and they had guns.

"Lennox!" Arthur shouted, fear wrenching his gut and helping him rush out of his door and toward the helicopter. "Lennox! Behind you!"

A shot went off, then two, then three. Arthur stopped counting as he neared his brother, who was now hurrying back in his direction, reaching out for Arthur.

He grabbed his arm. "We have ta get outta here."

Arthur nodded, his pride and bravery dissolving with the sight of the rebels. "I'm right behind you. Now, run!"

Lennox pulled him along, both racing toward the helicopter. Inside, the pilot was motioning anxiously toward them. As they neared, he shouted something—inaudible over the sound of the whirring blades.

"What's that?" Arthur shouted.

"… hurry!"

He dare not look behind him as he nodded and was pushed into the cabin by Lennox. Arthur turned around, reaching to tug his brother in, when a loud shot rang out and blood splattered on his sleeve.

 _"Lennox!"_ Arthur shrieked, catching the man in his arms as he fell forward, blood pouring from his neck wound. It must have hit his jugular—the blood was everywhere, hot and sickening, soaking Arthur's sleeve and pant leg. "Lennox! _Oh,_ _God_!"

"We have to go _now_!" The pilot swiveled around in his seat, his eyes wandering down to Lennox's limp form. "Is he dead?"

"Lord, I-I don't know…"

"We don't have any more time to waste." The pilot gestured to the rebels who were just a few yards away and closing, guns reloaded and ready.

Arthur's voice rose in panic. "We… we can't just leave him here!"

The pilot shook his head, pity glazing his eyes. "I'm sorry, sir, but there's no room for a body where we're going."

"Body…?" Arthur's mouth went dry as he muttered the word and ran a hand through Lennox's red hair. "I'm sorry, Lennox. Please, forgive me. I couldn't protect you either…" He blinked back tears. " _Dammit_!"

"Lifting off!" the pilot warned, and Arthur bit his lip, willing his frozen fingers to wrench themselves free of Lennox's blood-stained clothing. He let out a whimper as he allowed his brother to drop listlessly to the ground.

"Go, for God's sake. Get out of here!" Arthur couldn't bear seeing Lennox in such a state, and he forced himself to look down at his lap as they took off. So, he was abandoning ship again. How fucking typical. But he had to live—Lennox and his other brothers would have wanted that at least.

A sickening feeling rose in his throat, and he felt like he would vomit, but willed away the feeling. He couldn't be weak. Not now.

He'd promised Lennox too much.

"Where are we off to, lad?" Arthur finally found his voice, though it was still trembling.

"The U.S." was the response, and Arthur felt his heart lurch. "It's the only place that responded to my call and still has fuel."

He leaned his head against the window and heaved a sigh. "God, please, just let America be okay… I don't think I could take it, black pirate heart or no."

* * *

**France  
**

_The best lack all conviction, while the worst_

_Are full of passionate intensity._

_Surely some revelation is at hand;_

"You have to do this!"

"I will not!"

"For the sake of our country—"

"For that very reason, I will not abandon you."

The older man bowed his head in exasperation. "Francis, don't do this to me, please."

Francis folded his arms and narrowed his eyes. "You are just as important as me. Why should I go while you stay?"

"Because I am one man. You are an _entire nation_. If you're killed, France is wiped off the globe. If I perish, you will still exist, that is, if you leave now."

Francis looked defiantly at him. "You are just as important as me." he repeated, holding his gaze steadily. "Without your guidance, this country may never be at peace again. So, tell me, what if I am to leave today, like you want me to and you die? How will I ever be able to return safely if you are no longer alive to control the nation?"

His boss pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed gruffly. "That isn't the point, Francis. The point is that you'll still be alive. And it's better having you not here and alive than having you here and dead."

Francis growled, "I will not abandon my people in a time of crisis! That is the last thing they need in such times: less guidance."

His boss gave him a cold stare. "Remember what happened to Monaco and Luxembourg?"

Francis's breath caught in his throat and he lowered his eyes to the floor. "No, I try not to."

"Please, do. They stayed behind to help their countries, and look where that's gotten them. Ten feet under!"

"Please, don't say anymore." Francis felt guilt well in his gut. "Please,"

"Remember, France—you couldn't save them, and why? Because they stayed put. They were like large, red bull's eyes!"

"Stop it."

"I won't stop it, France." his boss replied venomously. "Not unless you agree to my terms."

"I told you already, I will not."

"Have it your way, then." His boss pushed back his mussed gray hair and turned his back to him, peering out the window in the long conference room. "Now, where did they find him, Luxembourg, I mean? Oh, yes, tied to a stake, burned alive."

"No," Francis covered his ears. "I don't want to hear it."

"Oh, you'll hear it, all right." his boss snapped, turning around and slamming his hands on the end of the table. "And Monaco, hm? How did you feel when _she_ was found, violently raped, her body hacked to pieces?"

"No!"

" _Yes_ , France, and it's all because of their ignorance. If they were smart, they would have left long before. But now all they are is another corpse in the street…"

_"ENOUGH!"_

His boss looked at him quizzically as Francis stood, crumpled-looking, panting, pale, and grief stricken.

"Why do you do this to yourself, Francis?" His boss's voice had returned to its normal tone. "Why do you sit back and suffer at the expense of your people?"

"Because I _am_ my people!"

"You'd prefer them all condemned, then, to a life without a country?"

Francis flashed him a menacing look. "I'd do anything for them."

"Then the biggest sacrifice you have to make is to let go. Leave,"

Francis was about to respond, when a corpsman ran through the doors and saluted. Both men saluted him in return and he shakily went on, "Sirs, the jet is ready to depart."

His boss gave Francis a stern look. "Do this for France."

Francis found himself nodding, though not really wanting to. "Yes, for France."

His boss smiled, and he smiled too, the main reason being because he hadn't seen anyone smile in a long time.

"Go, then. And be safe."

Francis nodded, feeling guilt claw at his insides as he was led out by the corpsman and onto the dusty stretch of land that had long been demolished by angry citizens. His heart sank at the sight. As he was boarding the private jet, his boss came running out to see him away, shouting, "Vive la France!"

Francis cracked a smile and waved, "Of course, my friend, of course!"

With that, the doors were sealed shut, the pilot guiding them down the makeshift runway and into the air.

"Where are we off to?" he asked after a while of pondering.

"America," the pilot responded, not bothering to elaborate.

Francis sighed as he peered out his window. He could not bear to look down on the destruction wreaked upon his beautiful cities and towns for more than a few agonizing minutes, though. He leaned back in his seat and muttered, "What has this world come to?"

* * *

No translations!

A Word From the Writer: Nations are dropping like flies. And that thing about England 'abandoning ship' will be mentioned later on in the fic, so pay attention! And are you seeing the pattern here? America is the destination. Ignore how coincidental them all going there is!

The stanzas are from "The Second Coming" The whole poem will be mentioned within these first few chapters. Now hopefully I won't have to mention it at the end of each chapter, yay!


	3. Germany/Italy

**Expect the word "Ow" to come to mind.  
**

Warning: Anarchy, battle situation, death by glass and grenade

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Germany  
**

_Surely the Second Coming is at hand._

_The Second Coming! Hardly are those words out_

_When a vast image out of Spiritus Mundi_

_Troubles my sight: somewhere in the sands of the desert_

Gunfire erupted as Gilbert stood in the Reichstag's north functions hall, staring out at the makeshift front set up just a hundred yards from the large glass windows. Tanks and men armed with guns were the only things that separated him and the rest of the officials from the terror of the people.

The people. It shamed him to even think that the only way to counter their rebellion was to kill them. When the initial revolt broke out, many big wigs were killed, and the rest—including him and his brother—retreated to the only intact government building in the area. The military (or rather what was left of it) had been called in to protect the remaining leaders, and it had warned the public that it would not hesitate to shoot them down if they tried to lead an attack. Now, here he was, feeling as alone as ever and frozen where he stood.

A hand on his shoulder made him jump.

"Relax, brother, it's just me." The familiar voice of Ludwig comforted Gilbert.

He turned to him, eyeing him seriously—which he honestly hadn't done but a handful of times before. "Ludwig, how are they holding?"

Ludwig met his gaze steadily. "They have somehow annexed tanks and weapons of their own and are taking out the remaining troops in a blitzkrieg."

Gilbert lowered his eyes. "I thought I'd never live to see the day when our own strategy was used against us by our own people."

"Me neither," Ludwig sighed as he put a hand on his shoulder once more, coaxing their eyes to meet again. "We can't stay here, East."

Gilbert swallowed dryly. "No sane man can."

"That's not what I mean." Ludwig said. "The Bundestag demand our departure."

Gilbert pulled away from him, whipping his head around to peer out the window as the sound of planes roared overhead. "Are those our planes?"

"Oh Lord help us," Ludwig said slowly.

They gave startled shouts as the floor beneath their feet rocked with the sounds and explosions of bombs dropping outside the building. Some of the ceiling began to crumble.

Just then, the President of the Bundestag came running in, pausing to catch his breath before he yelled over the rumbling, "They have planes… and they're dropping bombs on the building!"

Before the brothers could respond, the ground shifted as a bomb exploded with a loud boom on the north side of the building.

The President lunged forward and snatched up both of their wrists, tugging them toward the door. "You must leave. _Now_!"

They certainly didn't protest as they were led out through the lobby and out into the hall.

"Where are we going?" Gilbert shouted over the almost constant booms.

The President didn't stop in his running. He didn't even bother to turn around. "To one of the government's planes!"

They entered the dome room next, running quickly through. Gilbert peered up through the glass as he ran, watching the annexed planes soar overhead.

"Incoming!" he shouted and pushed his brother to the floor, throwing himself on top of him, and covering his own head with his hands.

There was a deafening screech as the massive cupola shattered into a million pieces, the shards of glass whipping like bullets through the air and lodging themselves in any solid object they hit. Gilbert bit his lip as his back and hands were imbedded with the sharp projectiles.

When their ears stopped ringing, Gilbert picked himself slowly off of his brother, helping Ludwig to his feet. He looked around for the President, and his heart sank when his eyes rested upon the crumpled man, his throat and sides impaled with glass. Gilbert assumed he must not have heard his warning.

"No…" Ludwig breathed almost helplessly.

"It looks like we were lucky." Gilbert observed, pointing out the undetonated shell sitting in the middle of the room. He grabbed his brother's wrist. "We need to go."

"But the President—"

"Stays here. He won't feel anything anymore." Gilbert replied. "Come on."

Ludwig nodded, and Gilbert could see he was struggling to rebuild his composure. "Let's go."

With that, they exited the now destroyed dome room, Gilbert wincing with the pain in his back. The shards were deeply buried; too deep in to come out on their own. He'd have to pick them out later. Now he settled with getting them out of his hands… but they hurt like a bitch.

They ran until they heard it—the sound of the plane engine on the east side. The brothers flew past the soldiers and captains and exited the building via the committee room.

Outside, the remainder of the Bundestag and the Bundesrat were gathered close together beside the plane, surrounded by armed soldiers. As they approached them, a member broke away from the group (much to the displeasure of the soldiers) and hobbled toward them.

"Where's the President?"

Ludwig seemed as if he couldn't answer, so Gilbert did it for him. "He's gone."

The member's face twisted into shock, then grief, then determination. "Get on the plane."

"Why should we leave when you must stay behind?" Ludwig asked.

"It is too late for us." the member replied hopelessly. "But not for you. If you live on, then a whole new generation of the Bundestag and the Bundesrat will take our places."

"It isn't right," Ludwig snapped. "I won't allow it."

"Would you rather end up like the President and the Chancellor? They won't be of much help now, and you won't be either if you're dead."

"He's right, West." Gilbert put a hand on Ludwig's shoulder, and realized he was trembling. Ludwig was not one to break under stressful situations. But then again, this wasn't your average riot.

He could almost hear the wheels turning in Ludwig's head. It was strange—normally Ludwig was so experienced with dealing with a crisis, but now he seemed almost… at a loss. He did the only thing he knew how to do, that was nearly instinctual and dated back to Prussia's strict military history: obeying your superiors and trusting in the experience of someone else.

"Yes, sir,"

"Then you will depart to the United States. It is the only place we could contact."

The member gave him a small smile and led them toward the plane. When Gilbert shuffled past the soldiers, he could hear them gasp and mutter worriedly. Oh God, how bad _were_ his injuries?

As they climbed the stairs into the cabin, the members waved them off. They sat side-by-side, Gilbert's arm wrapped securely around his little brother's shoulders.

The pilot steered the plane around the south side of the building so that they were facing the front. It had fallen back nearly halfway, the angry citizens overwhelming the trained missionaries with their numbers and arms. Above them, planes were zooming around, and Gilbert bit his lip, tightening his hold on Ludwig, hoping to God that none of them would decide to take aim.

The plane picked up speed as it ran across the hard-packed earth toward the line of fire. They actually passed through it, and Gilbert turned away when he saw a soldier blown to bits by a grenade. People were firing at the plane, and they were actually gathering a mob as they sped down the makeshift runway, but they were too fast for them to shoot at. Gilbert could hear the growing hum of other planes approaching behind as they neared their takeoff point. _It looks as if they've figured us out._

They were pushed back into the seats by their sharp ascent, and they were quickly rolling around in the air, dodging the annexed planes as they were closely followed. One was coming up on their side, and Gilbert's heart leaped into his throat as it got closer and closer to the wing. It was going to crash into them. In fact, Gilbert noticed, that seemed the exact intent of all the other planes in the alliance, as they all picked up speed and encircled them in an effort to make them lose control and crash into the group.

 _Why aren't they firing?_ Gilbert wondered. He'd rather be blown up in the air than dive to the earth and slowly burn to death in the wreckage. Then he realized, _They must want to capture us…_ He wasn't sure to be relieved or frightened of that.

There was a sudden swoosh then the sound of crunching metal. At first, Gilbert thought they had been hit and braced himself for a slow, fiery death, but it never came. Puzzled, he looked outside.

There, flying like bullets through the air from every direction, were the government jets. They shot off heat-seeking missiles that tailed the opposing planes until they were nothing but fiery bits of metal and smoke. Gradually, the planes began to fly dangerously close to the planes surrounding Gilbert and Ludwig until, finally, the enemy pilots were forced to pull away to avoid collisions and to deal with the sudden onslaught.

Gilbert didn't stop squeezing Ludwig (nor did he notice it) until a good ten minutes later, when they could no longer hear the bombs at the Reichstag and Ludwig muttered, "East… you are hurting my arm."

"Oh, sorry," Gilbert withdrew from him, realizing that the strength of his grip was enough to cause bruises. _I'll have to take a look at that later._ He thought.

"Don't you want to rest, East?" Ludwig asked, looking at him strangely. It was only then that Ludwig noticed he was sitting with his back awkwardly turned away from the seat.

"No, I'm fine."

"Let me see your injuries."

"What! Why do you always suspect—"

"Because you're stubborn, that's why." Ludwig snapped and spun him around. Gilbert could feel Ludwig's fingers dig into his shoulders as he assessed the damage. "The cupola… why did you cover me?"

"Do I really need to answer that for you?" Gilbert asked incredulously. "I'm your _brother_ , West. These kinds of things are instinctual."

"Shut up," Gilbert cracked a smile as he heard a hint of amusement in Ludwig's voice. Only Gilbert could get Ludwig to come mildly close to laughing. _Mildly_. "I'll need to pick these out."

"I know," Then in a mocking, childish voice he whimpered, "Please, be gentle with my awesomeness."

"Gilbert?"

"Yes, dear brother of mine?"

"Shut up before I decide to push them in deeper."

"Love you, too, Luddie."

* * *

**Italy  
**

_A shape with lion body and the head of a man,_

_A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun_

_Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it_

It was so _scary_! All the gunshots, all the shouting… it was truly terrifying.

Feliciano huddled in the corner of his living room, hugging himself and crying. He had cried for so long now, that he had no more tears to cry. He hadn't left his corner for three days—which explained his dehydration and weight loss.

But he didn't care. He was too scared to leave, to even look in any other direction but at the wall. His lungs heaved and his chest was sore with crying, dry hiccups still falling from his cracked lips, his face still hot with the effort.

He flinched as his cell phone rang across the room, unusually loud to his sensitive ears. Feliciano whimpered and covered his ears as it continued, almost mocking him. He couldn't answer it. His fear wouldn't allow him to. He was afraid the bad people could track him if he answered, so he remained where he was, in his little corner, curled up and breaking in his cries to hold his breath as closer gunshots rang out.

He didn't know what he'd done wrong! Feliciano had made so many white flags and stuck them around the outside of his house, that he was sure someone must have seen them. Why weren't they working, then? Didn't they know he'd given up?

He cried out as the wind began to pick up outside. Feliciano covered his ears and cried, fearing the worst as the low roar continued.

There was the sound of footsteps and then a pounding at the door.

"Feliciano! Feli, I know you're in there!"

Feliciano didn't answer, only curled more into a ball.

"Please, open the door, Feli!"

"Go away!" Feliciano cried. "You'll hurt me!"

"Stupid bastard, listen to me! Do I sound like someone who would hurt you?"

Feliciano blinked. No… it couldn't be, could it? After all, he'd assumed he was dead when he was reported missing from the entire country. Cautiously—and with much effort—Feliciano crawled over to the door and unlocked it slowly. As soon as it was, the door flew open, and Feliciano threw himself to floor, curling into a fetal position and shouting, "Don't hurt me! Don't hurt me, please!"

"Idiot," came the familiar voice. "Why would I hurt my own brother?"

Feliciano peered up and breathed, "L-Lovino?"

Lovino rolled his eyes and offered Feliciano a hand. "Yes, dammit, now get up."

Feliciano smiled as he took his hand, bringing himself to his feet. Immediately, though, his legs buckled and felt like jelly as they crumpled beneath him. Lovino lunged forward, catching Feliciano as he fell.

"Wow, that's weird." Feliciano blinked in confusion at his immobile legs. "I can't really feel my legs. They're kinda tingly!" he laughed weakly on the last part.

"Oh, no…" Lovino held him as he tried to examine the damage. "That's not good, Feli. What have you been doing?"

Feliciano looked guiltily down at the floor, as if he had just been found with his hand in the cookie jar—which definitely wasn't a good thing to be caught for, he knew from experience with Austria. "I… I've been sitting over there." He motioned to the corner.

Lovino glanced at it before looking sternly back at him and asking, "For how long?"

"… three days…"

" _Three days_?" Lovino nearly shouted, gripping Feliciano hard around the shoulders. "What is wrong with you, idiot? Have you eaten at all?"

"… no…"

"Had any water?"

"No…"

"Bathroom?"

Feliciano began crying again. Lovino shook his head. "Stupid bastard…"

"I'm sorry, Lovi! I'm sorry! Please, help me!"

Lovino sighed and hugged his brother close, cradling his head against his shoulder. "Of course I will help you, idiot."

Feliciano silently cried as they stood there (or rather, Lovino stood and held him) for a few more minutes before a gunshot reminded them of the danger that lurked outside.

Lovino pushed Feliciano off of him so that he could meet his eyes. "Have they seen you?"

Feliciano shook his head, hiccupping pitifully.

"Do they know you're here?"

"I don't know…"

Another gunshot.

"We need to get out of here." Lovino said and pulled Feliciano toward the door.

"Wait, Lovino!" Feliciano dragged his feet, unable to walk. "How?"

Lovino turned around so that Feliciano could clamber onto his back. "The helicopter, idiot. Didn't you hear it?"

Feliciano didn't have time to answer as another gunshot forced them to move. Lovino ran as fast as he could out the door and around the backside of the house where a helicopter hovered overhead. He stopped and waved at it until a ladder was dropped down. He began his ascent, and Feliciano gripped him tightly as Lovino struggled to pull both their weights to the top.

Then, something whizzed past Feliciano's head, and he screamed, nearly strangling Lovino in the process. Lovino choked a bit before glancing over his shoulder. They were only halfway up the ladder. "Dammit! They've spotted us!"

What Feliciano realized were bullets zoomed past them, and he began to cry. Lovino grunted, "Feli, I need you to crawl around to my front."

"What?" Feliciano sniffed.

"Go,"

"But I'm _scared_!"

"Do it, dumbass!"

With a whimper, Feliciano clambered around until he was clinging onto Lovino from the front, head buried in his brother's shoulder.

"Come on, dammit!" Lovino grunted as he continued to move up the ladder. Feliciano could feel his muscles straining as he did so. "Almost there!"

A bullet shot by and sliced through the thin fabric on Lovino's sleeve, making him hiss with pain. Feliciano screamed as he saw blood well from the light scratch.

"Stop squirming, dammit!" Lovino growled.

The bullets continued to fly, gunshots sounding louder than the blades of the helicopter. Finally, Lovino managed to make it to the top of the ladder, muttering for Feliciano to climb into the cabin. As soon as he was in, Feliciano reached for him, grabbing his right hand.

Then, there was another shot and Lovino gave a pained shout of, _"Fuckdammit!"_ Feliciano was forced to brace his weakened feet against the inside of the cabin as Lovino dropped his left arm from the rung of the ladder, half his body weight being held by Feliciano. It was only after a few more heated curses from his brother and the blood welling beneath the fabric on Lovino's shoulder that Feliciano realized he had been shot.

"Lovino!" he cried, tugging with all his strength, slipping ever closer to the edge of the helicopter.

Lovino peered up at him, shouting, "Idiot! Let me go!"

"No!" Feliciano began to cry as he pulled helplessly at Lovino.

"Feliciano," Lovino met his eyes for a moment that felt like a decade. "Please. I didn't save your ass just to have it killed!"

Feliciano shook his head. "I'm not giving up!"

"Bastard…" Lovino growled, allowing himself to be pulled up by Feliciano.

With all the effort in his already weakened body, Feliciano tugged Lovino up the rest of the ladder and into the cabin. Lovino flopped like a fish on the floor until he had fully scrambled his way in and shut the door behind him.

He rounded on Feliciano who was still sprawled on the floor and trying to catch his breath. "You idiot! Why did you do that?"

"I thought you were… I didn't want you to…" Feliciano started crying again.

"Idiot," Lovino sat down beside Feliciano and held him close. "You truly are a stupid bastard."

Feliciano cried into Lovino's chest as he rocked them both. Lovino peered out the window as the pilot steered them out of Venice and toward the Mediterranean Sea. "I just hope that conditions in America will be better than this. Maybe he might still be alive. Maybe the others will be."

Feliciano glanced up at his brother's face as he sniffled and saw a single tear trail its way down Lovino's cheek. "I just hope…" the older muttered.

* * *

No translations!

A Word From the Writer: Romano actually grew some balls. Bet that was a surprise. What will come more of a surprise is finding out where he was during the start of the Uprising. You'd think he would have been with his brother, but...

Onward!


	4. Russia/Japan

**Even at the end of the world, Japan has claustrophobia.  
**

Warning: Anarchy, mention of murder and torture, character deaths, fight scene

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Russia**

_Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds_

_The darkness drops again; but now I know_

Ivan lay in his bed, staring blankly up at the ceiling. It was dark, the curtains closed and the lights off. He had his gloved hands folded over his abdomen, fingering the material of his old World War II army great coat and cap. He smiled at the irony. All that he put into his country— his life, his being—was for naught.

So, this was how it would all end?

The government buildings in Moscow were burned and looted. Innocent supporters of the regime were killed as well as all officials discovered. The army was reduced to a few hundred soldiers. The infantry was retreating. Religion did not matter anymore. Cathedrals were seized and destroyed. Those of the cloth were murdered. Whole cities were burned to the ground.

And here he was, lying, waiting. He would not commit suicide nor would he kill his people. If his citizens wanted to topple the old order and kill him while they were at it, then so be it. Until then, however, he would wait for his demise with dignity.

At that moment, all the gunfire ceased outside, just a mile from his home. The army knew he was here, waiting, and they insisted upon protecting him, though Ivan had no idea why. There was no stopping the united will of the people—he knew that from experience. And he also knew that this time around, he would not be able to change that.

Not ten minutes later, there was a pounding at his door. Ivan kept his eyes locked on the ceiling and shouted, "Enter!"

"Sir!" A battered-looking soldier stumbled into the room, catching his breath. "S-Sir… there has been a cease-fire."

"So I have heard."

"No, Sir," The soldier was bold to tell Ivan he was wrong, but Ivan allowed it to slip. "It has been enacted on the enemy side. The General fears they are planning to launch an air attack."

"So?"

"Their main objective is to eliminate you."

"Oh," Ivan broke his stare at the ceiling to smile wryly at the young man. "Isn't that unfortunate?"

"Y-yes, Sir." The soldier was obviously disturbed by his behavior. "There's also something else."

"And what would that be, comrade?"

The soldier swallowed and turned, motioning toward the doorway. Ivan watched curiously as two more men entered, carrying between them what looked to be a corpse.

"You brought me a body?"

"No, Sir," the soldier replied as the others lowered the corpse to the floor beside Ivan's bed. Ivan's eyes widened and his heart sped up (actually _beat_ a few good times) as he recognized the identity of the body. "We've brought you the President."

Ivan was silent for a moment, the blood roaring in his ears. "You rescued him?"

"No," The soldier looked shamefully at his feet before continuing, "The enemy returned him to us. They warned us this is what would happen to you."

"They only seek to weaken our resolve." Ivan replied, gaze returning to the ceiling. Quietly, he muttered, "It seems as if he's won the race to Death before me. Lucky bastard."

The soldiers were quiet for a moment, as if they were expecting more of a reaction. Then, one soldier said, "Sir, will you not flee?"

"Flee!" Ivan's sharp, almost hysterical laughing rang throughout the room, making them all flinch. Ivan turned his head to look at them. "Fleeing is for cowards. I must face what I have created."

"If you do not," another said slowly. "you will be killed."

"I have long known what my fate would be." Ivan closed his eyes as he faced the ceiling once more. "You needn't repeat it for me."

"You don't understand, Sir." a soldier replied, and Ivan gave him a how-dare-you-tell-me-what-I-do-and-do-not-understand look. Nevertheless, he continued, "All of the officials are dead. The only authoritative figures left are the remaining Generals and you."

"Unless you unite with the other leaders," another added. "Russia cannot be righted and saved. You must escape so that when peace comes, you will once again be able to restore order."

"Mother Russia," Ivan mumbled. "is no more. The people _are_ Russia. Without their support, I am nothing but just another enemy opposed to their ideas." Oh, yes, he'd learned this, had seen his royalty killed for this…

"Then what do you intend to do, Sir?"

"I intend to end how I began: by the hands of my people." Ivan swallowed his regret and continued, "There is no saving this country from the wrath of those who created it. There is no stopping the Uprising. After I am long gone, a new Russia will rise from the ashes and who were once my people will start anew with rules and ideas they approve of."

There was a tense silence, then the soldiers stepped forward. Ivan turned to look at them quizzically. "If that is what you think, Sir," one said. "Then we have no choice but to forcibly expel you from the country."

Another soldier stated, "By order of the remaining Generals of Russia, you are officially banished from the country until further notice."

Ivan sat up, a dangerous look on his face. "You cannot banish me from my own country! I _am_ this country!"

"As you said earlier, Sir," a soldier quipped, lunging forward to subdue him. The others immediately followed. "This is no longer your country."

"Let me go!" Ivan growled, managing to throw one soldier off of him, only to have the other two pin his arms by his sides. _Damn! I'm too weak…_ His strength had been waning ever since the beginning of the Uprising, and now it was reduced to nothing more than that of a mortal.

"There is nothing left for you here, Sir."

"Stop resisting."

"Dammit, let go!"

Ivan was held down, one arm twisted behind his back as he was shackled. They then sat him up on his bed and placed his cap back on his head.

"There is no time to pack, Sir." one of the soldiers began ruefully. "We have all the supplies you may need. You are taking the last of the government jets to America. There you will stay until you are contacted."

Ivan was silent for a few moments before he looked at them and smirked. "You three are all very cocky bastards. I order you to retain that attitude until the end."

"We will, Sir." they all said at once. They all saluted Ivan, though Ivan could not salute them back.

"I guess I have no choice, then." Ivan said wistfully. "Do what you will with me. Though, I cannot guarantee that I will keep away until your call."

A soldier smiled. "We expect it."

Ivan lowered his head so that he was looking into the ghosted eyes of the President. "He was a brave man. Was he tortured?"

"Yes, Sir."

"Very much so, Sir."

"He never gave away any information, though, Sir."

Ivan smiled. "Loyal bastard,"

He rose to his feet and was led by the soldiers out of his home and into the jet that waited in his backyard. Once they were inside, Ivan was chained to a chair in the cabin.

"The Captain will have the key." one soldier assured. "He will release you upon your arrival."

"Of course," Ivan offered them another smile. "I only wish I could have been of more help to you."

"You wouldn't have been allowed anyway."

"Who says I would have obeyed?"

The soldiers chuckled and waved in farewell as they made their exit. "Just… try to stay safe."

"I will," Ivan replied. "Or else all of this effort to send me elsewhere would have been for nothing, yes?"

The soldiers gave him a last smile as they exited the cabin, closing the door securely behind them, all of them knowing what fate awaited them back at the front.

Ivan sighed as the plane took off and he peered out of the window. The battle had started again, as it sounded, and small planes could be seen on the moonlit horizon. But it was too dark and foggy for the planes to follow, and he would be far away before they would arrive at his home.

Ivan leaned back in his chair as, once again, he laughed at the irony of his situation. "It figures that my only escape route would end up being one that led to America…"

* * *

**Japan  
**

_That twenty centuries of stony sleep_

_Were vexed to nightmare by a rocking cradle,_

Kiku cried over the body of South Korea, his head in his arms which were folded across the younger man's now cold body. It had only been a couple of days since Soo came to him, having been forced to flee his own country, and the two had been ambushed, Soo taking a bullet to the chest and head in the process. Kiku knew they were coming for him now that they knew where he lived, but he didn't care. All he wanted to do was mourn Soo.

There was a knock at the door, and Kiku stopped crying abruptly, as he'd always done when he feared someone would see him showing any kind of emotion, which was quite rare. He instinctively reached for his katana, though he knew that it would do no good against guns and grenades. Even so, he would defend Soo's resting place to the very end. He wouldn't give anyone the chance of violating his brother's body like they did so many others.

The pounding continued, and Kiku braced himself, his katana raised and ready.

"Japan! Japan!" a familiar voice shouted frantically. "Kiku! Please, open the door! It's China!"

Without even the slightest change of expression, Kiku opened the door, and China stepped in, a look of horror on his face.

"What happened, China?"

"This!" Yao turned around to reveal the limp form of Hong Kong hanging from his back. Kiku examined him for a moment before Yao wailed, "He's dead! Shot! Murdered!"

"Oh, no…" Kiku backed away from the scene, his resolve weakening with the sight of Hong Kong's blue lips and pale face. "How did he…?"

"I tried to get over here with him," Yao began hysterically. "to see if you were okay. But the boat we took was intercepted by an enemy ship just offshore. We were forced to bail and swim the rest of the way, but they shot the water and hit Hong Kong. I had to drag his body to the shore and carry him here. I thought he would last until then, but…" Yao lowered his eyes to the floor in an effort to hide his tears.

Kiku was at a loss about what to do. He hadn't seen Yao cry before and wasn't very close to him. Comforting him was a foreign subject to him.

Instead, he took Hong Kong off of Yao's back and carried him to his couch, arranging him so that he looked like he was stretched out with his eyes closed. "Now it looks like he is sleeping."

Yao smiled and sniffled. "Yes… his facial expression even matches."

"Yeah,"

Yao laughed wistfully and he turned toward Kiku's room. Kiku, panicked at the thought of Yao finding Soo, darted in front of him, blocking the way. Yao gave him a puzzled look.

"What is it, little brother?"

"Nothing. My room is messy."

"Nonsense," Yao clucked. "You're the last person I'd expect to have their room so disorderly."

Kiku shrugged. "I… haven't been able to tend to it for a while."

Yao narrowed his eyes. "What is it you are trying to hide from me, Japan?"

"Nothing!"

"Oh, really?" Yao tried to push past him, but Kiku's samurai reflexes prevented him from doing so. "Japan!"

Kiku sighed. This struggle was going to last forever if he allowed it. "All right," He stepped aside. "But you'll regret resisting me."

Yao gave him a worried look and opened the door cautiously, as if expecting a monster to jump out. Then, he gave a sharp cry, surging forward to Kiku's bed where Soo lay.

"I'm sorry, Yao." Kiku placed a hand on his brother's shoulder as he cried into Soo's chest. Yeah, that seemed the right thing to do. Like in those sappy American movies… "I tried to save him."

"They're all g-gone!" Yao sobbed, hugging Soo's dead body. "Vietnam, Taiwan, Hong Kong, South Korea, Thailand…" He heaved a sigh, as if struggling to suppress his sobs. "I don't want to lose you too, Kiku."

Kiku felt awkward at the confession. Sure, Yao had always considered him his brother, but they weren't particularly close. "What should we do, then? The rebels know where I am. They'll be here within hours."

Yao gave him a horrified look. "Then we can't stay here."

"We'll leave to a bunker, then."

"No, Kiku." Yao stood and took him by the shoulders, looking at him with serious eyes. "We have to leave the _country_."

Kiku felt his claustrophobia kick in, and he pushed Yao away. "Sorry. But how? My boss is dead and the city is crawling with rebels. We won't be able to make it to the airport."

"Do you know anyone who's able to fly a plane?"

Kiku thought for a moment, then got an idea. "Come on," He motioned for Yao to follow him as he ran out of the house. "I know where we can find one."

Yao paused at the doorway, glancing behind him ruefully before following.

Kiku and Yao ran for what felt like miles, until, finally, they reached a rundown building just outside the city. Kiku paused to catch his breath as Yao caught up.

"What… what is this?"

Kiku pointed up to the sign above the door. "Tokyo Helicopter Rides."

"Oh,"

"Let's go,"

It was dark inside, and Kiku unsheathed his katana as he entered. Yao stepped slowly in after him, wielding his large wok.

"Makoto-kun?" Kiku called out, his voice ringing off the walls. "Makoto-kun, are you here?"

"Yo!" Kiku flinched as the lights were suddenly flicked on, revealing a young man wearing a white tank top and gray sweatpants. He threw a gun back on the table he was leaning on. "Heya, Kiku. Haven't seen ya in a while, man."

"I know," Kiku began, glad the man didn't pounce on him like he always did when they met. "Do you still have the helicopter?"

"Of course!" Makoto said gleefully. "Ya know, guys, I thought you were some of them rebel mobs or somethin'. I almost pissed my pants!"

"Uh… that's nice." Kiku said with a slight grimace. "So, about the helicopter…?"

"Oh, yeah, right!" Makoto took one last drag of his cigarette before dropping it and scuffing it out with the toe of his shoe. "Right this way, my good sirs."

He led them out around the back until they were standing in front of a helicopter. "Here she is. Isn't she a beauty?"

"Sure," Kiku said, then turned to eye him seriously. Which wasn't hard considering he was Japan. "But we need to leave in it. Fast."

Makoto blinked at him. "What for? Doncha like the new scenery?"

"Makoto…"

"All right, all right," He peered around him at Yao. "So who's this guy? One of them long-haired rockers from downtown?"

"No, he's a friend of mine from China." Kiku said before Yao could retort. "He's coming with me."

"And where exactly are you going, hm?" Makoto leaned up against the helicopter, lighting another cigarette. "Planning on touring Beijing? I've heard the crowds are very friendly nowadays."

"Not exactly…" Kiku waved away the smoke. "We plan to escape to another country."

"Which one, hon? Ya know there are, like, a million countries in the world, right?"

 _I doubt that…_ He thought for a moment, then said the first place that he first thought of. "America. We want to go to America."

Makoto nearly dropped his cigarette in shock. "What! All the way the hell over there? Like, across an _ocean_? Nah, dude, I haven't ever gone that far."

"Please, Makoto," Yao cut in. "We really need your help. The rebels are tracking us. They could be here in less than—"

There was the sound of wood crunching and glass shattering in the building. They all froze, unable to speak as shouts erupted behind them.

"Looks like they've found you." Makoto said, putting out his cigarette and climbing into the cockpit. "Could you guys get me some fuel over there? This thing's not nearly full enough to travel an ocean."

Kiku and Yao quickly went to work, tossing in as many containers as they could before the rebels emerged from the building, guns firing as soon as they saw them. At that time, Kiku and Yao were by the building, preparing to get the last containers before they were forced to pull back. The rebels roared and ran after them, and Kiku could feel the bullets whiz by his head.

They were nearly halfway to the now running helicopter, when Yao shrieked. Kiku glanced to his side and felt his heart race as he saw that a large rebel had grabbed Yao's shoulder and was struggling to subdue him. Yao had long since put his wok in the helicopter in order to carry more containers, so he had little to defend himself with save for his fists. Kiku responded quickly, surging forward and slicing the man's arm with his katana before the rebel knew he was there. The man cried out, blood spurting from the wound and crumpled to the ground.

"Run," Kiku panted, turning to do so when he saw another rebel approaching him in his peripheral vision. He spun around at the last moment, running his katana through the man before turning to look for Yao. He was horrified to see that the Chinaman was struggling to throw off two attackers now, one at each arm. Just as Kiku was about to launch his katana at one of the men, both rebels screamed and dropped to the ground, blood welling from their stomach wounds. Befuddled, Kiku looked quizzically at Yao. Yao pushed back his sleeves to reveal blood-stained butterfly swords attached to his arms. "Just in case this happened." Yao smirked.

Kiku nodded and they both set off running again, this time making it to the cabin and clambering inside. As soon as they were in, Yao grabbed his wok and Kiku crouched with his katana raised and ready. The rebels were closing in, now only twenty yards away from the helicopter.

"Makoto!" Kiku shouted over the sound of the whirring blades.

"I'm punchin' it! Hold onto your asses, guys!" With that Makoto pulled up, allowing the helicopter to hover over the ground before it finally tilted away. Yao and Kiku were thrown back against the cabin as they shot over the building and toward the city.

Bullets still managed to hit the copter, and Kiku quickly pulled the door shut. He and Yao sat back once they were out of range, panting heavily.

"You guys okay back there?" Makoto asked, glancing over his shoulder.

"Yes, we're fine." Kiku answered, wishing Makoto would turn around and watch where he was going. He was notoriously known to be a reckless flyer.

"We'll have to stop in Yokohama to refuel. I just hope the people there are more merciful."

"I doubt it." Yao said. "Everywhere I've been has yielded no such results."

"For the record, I'll have to contact any Air Traffic Control tower in the U.S. before landing anywhere. I don't think it would be a good idea to drop you guys off at an airport—or any location at that—where there are no other pilots to get you out of a jam. But we do have to land on some islands to refuel before that."

"Do whatever you think is best." Kiku said. "And Makoto?"

"Yeah, hon?"

"Please try not to crash."

"Gotcha,"

* * *

No translations!

A Word From the Writer: Yeah... I don't know who or what inspired Makoto's personality. I guess I had the urge to include someone whimsical among all the dramatic stuff.


	5. Canada

**In this situation, I wouldn't mind being invisible...  
**

Warning: Nothing really... except for angst.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

 

**Canada  
**

The wind whistled through the deserted city, the buildings crumbling and vandalized, the sky gray and heavy with rain.

Matthew pulled his hood up around his face, worrying that he would be noticed. But as he continued on through the once bustling cities, he found no signs of life.

Where was everyone?

From all the signs and advertisements around him, Matthew recognized the place to be New York City. Everything was sapped of all color, dust and debris claiming most of the city. He sighed, stopping to survey what he knew to be Times Square. The billboards were empty as well as the many large screens that surrounded the area. Many of the stores around him had either been broken into or vandalized. One particular spray-painted wall reading "Long Live the Final Judgment!" sent chills up Matthew's spine.

He felt guilty leaving his own country, but worry was gnawing at him. Was Alfred alive? Was he being tortured somewhere? Was he already dead? Matthew needed to know. He needed to know that he wasn't the only one still alive.

If there was anywhere Al would be, he knew, it would be here. But then again, Alfred also wasn't stupid enough to go anywhere a large number of angry people would most likely be, despite how idiotic he seemed sometimes. The only other place to check would be Alfred's apartment in Manhattan, but that would mean traversing the whole city to get to it, which would be very risky. He sighed, leaning against a nearby building. If only he could have put a tracking device in his brother while he could, then this would have proved a much easier task. He chuckled to himself, imagining the transmitter beeping beneath Al's skin, driving the man to think he was going to explode.

That would be mean, though. But it _would_ make up for all those times he was ignored or beaten up because he was mistaken for Alfred…

A trash can clinking against the road made Matthew jump and reach for his rifle. He held it up, aiming it at the direction in which the sound came. He breathed a sigh of relief when he realized it was only a disheveled dog, scrounging around in the contents of the trash can for food.

He kept his rifle out as he continued down an alleyway, trying his best to stay behind something that would provide him sufficient cover if he encountered a rebel. He glanced up at the sky and a raindrop planted itself on his nose. Matthew wiped it off with a groan. It would be hard to navigate through the rain, but he couldn't stop now. He _had_ to find Alfred. He was so close! And, knowing Alfred, the man would be stupid enough to continue to move even through a thunderstorm. If Matthew didn't keep moving, he might miss his brother altogether.

With an agitated grunt, Matthew continued to walk through the city, being sure to survey open spaces for dangers before daring to cross them. In a way, he felt like a spy, though no one seemed there to catch him.

 _Imagine that,_ he thought. _Even now that the world has gone to hell, I am_ still _not seen._

 

_And what rough beast, its hour come round a last,_

_Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?_

* * *

No translations!

A Word From the Writer: Well, that's it for now, folks. The next few chapters will reveal who survived and who didn't, so make sure to follow!

*cough* And reviews would also be appreciated.

**Also be sure to check out my special Easter post-- _Prussia Cottontail (Hey, It's Gilbunny!_ on FF _)_ It will be posted on Easter ('13).**


	6. Then There Was One

**Ah, jeez. Agatha Christie left an impression on me...  
**

Warning: Angst, use of weapons.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I like manipulating the characters, though

* * *

**Then There Was One**

"Jesus, finally!" Alfred burst through the doors of the airport, suddenly regretting his outburst and darting behind a large potted plant. After a few minutes of scrutinizing the lobby, Alfred deemed it safe enough to emerge.

He peered around at the large airport. Papers were strewn everywhere, luggage abandoned, silence prevailing. Alfred didn't quite know what to do. Hadn't Virginia said she had arranged a flight for him? Then who the hell was her contact?

 _I wish I could have asked her for more information…_ Alfred thought ruefully as he walked toward the gates of Terminal 3. If there was anywhere someone would be hiding, it would be at the farthest most terminal. He stopped in front of the gates, looking around and gathering the courage to yell, "Hello?"

He waited. Nothing.

"Hello!" he yelled louder.

There was movement behind him and the cocking of a gun. Alfred froze where he stood, heart pounding in his chest. "Hands up,"

Alfred did so, trembling.

"Turn around,"

The man was small and dressed is a pilot's uniform and cap, a pistol in his hands. "Who are you?"

"Alfred F. Jones," he replied, his voice shaking a little. "My friend, Virginia, called here…" _God, I hope I'm telling the right person._ Alfred thought nervously.

The pilot blinked and was still for moment, then lowered his gun. "Well, it's about damn time, son."

Alfred smiled in relief. "Damn, I thought I was dead."

"You would have been if you'd aimed that at me." The pilot motioned to Alfred's handgun at his side.

Alfred laughed weakly. "Yeah, well, good thing I didn't. Heheheh…"

"It's 8:58," The pilot looked at his watch. "Looks like you arrived just in time."

"How lucky," Alfred said, clearing his throat. "So, do we leave now?"

"Let me check the plane over first to make sure it's good to go."

"Okay, tell me when you're ready. I'll go grab some food in the terminal."

The pilot gave him a nod and entered the gate that led to the plane.

Alfred sighed and planted himself in one of the many seats lined up in front of the gates. He was too exhausted at the moment to do much of anything. Although he was hungry as hell, he needed to rest for a few minutes before being able to put forth the effort to eat—which was saying a lot, since he usually ate all the time.

There was a low roar outside, and Alfred whipped his head to one of windows lining the wall and saw a helicopter landing on the tarmac. A few moments later, the pilot came racing back in, waving his arms. "They've found us! They've found us!"

Alfred bolted up from his chair so fast that he became a bit dizzy. "Who?"

"I don't know," the pilot admitted. "But whoever they are, they're not from here. I didn't recognize the copter."

"Dammit!" Alfred fumbled to remove his gun from its holster as he ran with the pilot to the opposite end of the terminal to hide and lie in wait for the new arrival. "Why have they come here? It's abandoned!"

"I have no idea." the pilot answered breathlessly. "Food, fuel… it could be anything."

"Yeah," Alfred growled. "Like killing me."

"What?"

"Nothin'."

They were almost halfway to the doors, when footsteps coming from one of the gates sounded behind them. Alfred willed his feet to move faster, his finger to remain locked and ready on the trigger of his gun.

Then, "Alfred?"

Alfred stopped, causing the pilot to skid to a halt in front of him. "What the hell are you doing, boy?"

"No… impossible…" Alfred was so stunned it took him a few seconds to turn around.

"Alfred?" came the same voice. "Alfred, is that you?"

Alfred blinked a few times to make sure he wasn't hallucinating. "I-Iggy?"

"Alfred!" It _was_ Arthur. The older blonde was staring at him in awe."Alfred!"

"Arthur!"

Arthur threw down his bags and ran to Alfred. He was met halfway, and Arthur immediately wrapped his arms around the younger man's neck. "Alfred, thank God."

"Iggy…" Alfred muttered, hugging him back and feeling his throat grow scratchy. This reminded him of when Arthur used to hug him as a child, when he was crying and confused… he had been robbed of that comfort for a long time, and now it was intensified by the fact that Arthur was here and alive. "I thought you were dead."

"Well," Arthur chuckled. "I'm not."

"Who the hell is he?"

The pilot was standing behind them, a puzzled and fearful look on his face.

Alfred and Arthur parted. Alfred laughed in embarrassment as he explained, "No worries, man. This is my friend from England."

Arthur extended his hand. "Arthur Kirkland. Sorry for the fright."

"No problem, no problem." The pilot had an amusing look of immense relief on his face. He took Arthur's hand and gave it a firm shake. "You see, I've been trying to keep this place on the down low for a while now."

"Ah," Arthur took a moment to peer around before continuing, "It seems you've succeeded."

"Well, yes." the pilot said sheepishly.

"Hey, uh…"

"Captain Roberts,"

"So, Captain Roberts," Alfred began slowly. "Since Arthur's here, can you forestall the flight? We both need some rest."

"Okay," Roberts looked a bit crestfallen, but he gave them a cheery smile. "I'll be in the radio room. Believe it or not, I still have some contacts with others."

Alfred's heart pounded. "Have you heard from Virginia recently?"

The Captain shook his head. "Sorry, no. Not since she arranged your flight. I'm afraid I haven't been able to contact her."

"Oh," Alfred felt guilt gnaw at his already empty belly. _I should have gone to help her. But then I wouldn't have met Iggy… dammit! Why does the world have to be such an asshole sometimes?_

The pilot waved as he departed, leaving Alfred and Arthur alone in the middle of the terminal.

Alfred stumbled as Arthur leaned heavily against him. "Uh… Artie, are you okay?"  
"I'm just a tad tired." Arthur mumbled. "I feel like I haven't slept in months."

"You probably haven't," Alfred said. "If you've been through anything like I have." He guided Arthur over to the row of seats lined up in front of Gate 3. Arthur sunk down into one of the chairs, head propped up by his hand. Alfred situated himself beside him and asked hesitantly, "What _have_ you gone through, Iggy?"

"Please, Alfred," Arthur groaned quietly. "Not now. I just… need to rest right now."

Alfred's heart gave a worried flutter as he examined Arthur's face. His eyes were bloodshot and his cheeks were hollow. His hair was mussed and hid skin covered in a layer of dirt and sweat. His suit was splattered with a reddish stain that Alfred suspiciously thought was blood. But there was something about his expression that concerned Alfred the most. It was something he had seen on Arthur only once before, something that he couldn't quite pinpoint. Was it sadness? Regret? Grief? He couldn't tell. Hell, at this point, it could be all three.

Alfred remained quiet, stroking the torn fabric of Arthur's sleeve until he himself had dozed off into much-needed slumber.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Wow, this was short, huh? I'm sorta trying to write short chapters so that they don't seem all daunting and shit. Honestly, it's not just to annoy the hell out of people when they're having to scroll down and click the 'Next' button after about five minutes of reading... nope, _totally_ not that. XD


	7. Then There Were Two

**More nations are arriving~!  
**

Warning: Angst, weapons, a suicide.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating the characters, though

* * *

**Then There Were Two**

Arthur was jolted awake by an echoing bellow, flinching and giving a startled shout before the sound dissipated and he relaxed some.

"Alfred," he turned to the snoring man, who, amazingly, hadn't even woken. "Alfred… dammit, Alfred, wake up!" Arthur flicked the younger man's ear.

Alfred jolted awake, mumbling incoherently, "… ance, get your hand out of my pants… ow!" He held his ear and winced. "Hey! What was that for? Ya know, I was tryin' to sleep, and I'm damn tired!"

"Shut it, git." Arthur snapped, peering around the terminal before asking, "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

Arthur looked incredulously at him. "You're kidding me, right?"

"Trust me, Igs, I'm not in the joking mood. Now what in the hell are you talking about?"

"That…" Arthur searched for the right word, but couldn't find one. "… _sound_?"

Alfred gave him a concerned look. "Did you knock your head on the way over here?"

"Insufferable smartarse," Arthur growled. "You were snoring too loud to hear it yourself."

Alfred laughed a bit at that. "Pfft, I don't snore."

Arthur gave him a skeptical look. "Don't give me that shit when _I_ raised you." Alfred was about to retort, but Arthur quickly went on, "It sounded loud. Quite loud, actually. Too close to be from the outside and too soft to be something keeling over."

Alfred's face went serious. "Damn… you don't think they found us?"

"Who?"

"The rebels," Alfred replied worriedly. "A couple of them found me and chased me for while until I finally escaped. They're looking for me or anyone who has supposedly 'deceived' them. They call all government-affiliated people 'Deceivers' by the way…"

"What does this have to do with me?"

Alfred paled a bit. "That's right… crap, now that you're here, if they find us… they'll kill us or worse."

"Worse?"

"My friend, his name was Sam," Alfred's voice cracked a bit. "He was captured and tortured because of suspicions by the rebels that he knew my whereabouts. He told them where I was, then was… raped and shot dead."

Arthur felt all the blood drain from his face. "That's… that's terrible. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," Alfred said. "He was a good friend. I just wish I could have been there for him."

Alfred was looking sad, so Arthur thought it best to redirect the conversation. He glanced at his watch. "Shit, we've been asleep for thirty-five minutes."

"So what? I say we should have slept longer."

"No, you git!" Arthur said. "Because of our inattentiveness, we have no idea what that sound was."

"Wanna find out?" Alfred waggled his eyebrows.

Arthur stood, rolling his eyes. "We'd better."

"Right," Alfred followed. "Where did it come from?"

Arthur surveyed the terminal. "There, I believe." He pointed toward the radio room.

"But," Alfred began slowly. "That's where Roberts went…"

"I know," Arthur's hands were trembling now.

"Here," Alfred slipped a pocketknife out of his bag. "Take this. We're gonna look for him."

Arthur scoffed. "That's hardly necessary." He rummaged in his coat pocket before revealing a loaded pistol. Alfred's surprised look made him laugh. "Do you honestly think that I would go around defenseless in this hellhole?"

Alfred shrugged and led the way across the terminal and to the radio room.

Alfred entered first, of course, and Arthur rolled his eyes when the younger man proceeded to crouch and move about in a ridiculous display of covert maneuvers. "Get up, git."

"Shh!" Alfred hissed, and Arthur scoffed. "Turn on the lights."

Arthur did so and they both gasped at the sight.

Blood was dripping across the counter and onto the floor, all over the equipment. Roberts was seated in the swivel chair, slumped across the counter, blood still dripping from his jaw. A pistol was held limply in his hand. Alfred stepped forward to examine him closer. He turned to Arthur and confirmed, "Shot up through the chin."

"A suicide?" Arthur was in disbelief. "But why would he want to…?"

Just then, static erupted on the radio and he hurried over to it, trying to decipher what was being said through the noise.

_"… to Baron, Rusty to Baron, when will you give the all clear?"_

_"10 tomorrow morning… guns and grenades ready… all out assault on Terminal 3… finally smoke that bastard out…"_

"Fuck!" Alfred cursed, snatching up Arthur's arm and pulling him toward the seats.

"Alfred, what the bloody hell are you doing?" Arthur squirmed. "Let me go!"

"They're coming!" Alfred said frantically. "They're going to storm this Terminal and we don't have a pilot!"

"What do you suppose we do?" Arthur growled. "Go outside where they're probably keeping watch?"

"No!" Alfred dug his hands into his hair in frustration and sat promptly in a chair. "I-I don't know… there's no way out."

Arthur sat down beside him, swallowing his cowardice and saying, "Well, this won't do. Do you honestly think getting frantic over this will solve it?"

"No…"

"Then perk up, lad." Arthur snapped. "We'll have to defend this terminal, then. And we won't give up until they've shot us dead."

Alfred winced. "Don't you think that's… a pretty violent way to go?"

"America!"

"All right, all right," Alfred waved a dismissive hand. "I'm with ya. But you have to promise you won't nag me for the rest of the time we're alive."

Arthur snorted. "I do _not_ nag!"

"Remember, Artie, _you_ raised me."

"Shut it," Arthur snapped and was about to make a snide remark, when a sound reached his ears. "What's that?"

"What's what?"

"Deaf sod! _Listen_."

"I'm just kidding, jeez!" Alfred scoffed. "Can't take a joke…" He was silent for a moment before his heart started pounding. "That's… a plane engine."

"They must be flying in!" Arthur concluded. He cocked his gun. "We'll surprise them. Get on that side of the gate."

They both stood opposite each other beside the arc that marked the entrance to the plane. They held their breath as the plane approached Gate 4, stopping, the door sliding open, then closing. Footsteps could be heard… along with the cocking of a gun.

"Get ready," Arthur mouthed. "Three… two… one… now!"

Arthur shouted the last word and both men lunged forward until they were standing shoulder-to-shoulder, guns aimed and ready at the intruder.

The man gave a startled cry and pointed his gun at them in turn. They stared at each other for a long while before Arthur lowered his pistol and muttered, half in shock, half in disgust, _"Frog?"_

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: You know England had to live. He was a goddamn empire, there's no way he's going down that easily! But... now they have no pilot. England, did you bring bad luck with you? :D


	8. Then There Were Four

**Oooh... I skipped a number.  
**

Warning: Angst, weapons.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating the characters, though

* * *

 

**Then There Were Four**

Francis stood there, shaking as the other two men glared at him, fingers on the triggers of their guns. His hands were trembling, but that didn't stop him from snatching the gun from his bag and aiming it at them. He was so anxious that he paid no heed to the identities of his attackers.

That was, until one of them lowered his weapon and began to scrutinize his face from afar. _"Frog?"_

Francis was so shocked at first, that he didn't know what to say. There was only one voice that held such an arrogant and nagging tone… he knew it quite well. "A-Angleterre?"

"France," came another voice, and the other man returned his gun to its holster at his side and scurried up to him, placing his hands on Francis's shoulders, smiling broadly. "Hey, man! Long time, no see!"

"America?" Francis felt like someone had just kicked him in the stomach… which, in truth, wasn't just from his great surprise. "How are you here—together?"

"I just got here from England." Arthur replied. "You took a flight as well?"

"I almost didn't, honestly." Francis sighed ruefully. "I only wish I could have convinced my boss to come with me…"

"We all wish that—" Arthur began.

"… but at least I know you're okay, mon belle Angleterre!" And he surged forward, pouncing on Arthur and planting him with kisses. Arthur shouted and kicked at Francis, finally managing to clock him in the jaw. Francis recoiled with a hurt look. "It does not comfort you to know that I'm alive as well?"

"On the contrary," Arthur sniffed, dusting himself off. "It makes me wish I brought that chastity belt that I bought for you…"

"Oh, don't say things like that, mon ami." Francis pouted, then smirked. "Besides, you would be forever hated and condemned by the world if you prevented me from making lo—"

"—Oookay!" Alfred cut in, standing between the two men and throwing his arms around each of their shoulders. It wasn't like Alfred was a prude, but it was sort of weird seeing Francis trying to pick Arthur up, especially after an incident when a much younger Alfred had accidentally walked in on them preparing to get it on. He was still scarred—by the scene he saw or the awkward sex talk he'd received from Arthur afterward, he didn't know. "Isn't this nice, we're here, together, just how it used to be?"

"Not if you count 'used to be' as us fighting over you." Arthur growled, folding his arms.

Francis sighed. "Oui, but the only one missing is mon petit lapin. Have you heard from Mathieu lately?"

"Mattie, huh?" Alfred thought for a moment. "The last time I had any contact with him was three months ago."

Arthur turned on him. "He's your brother and you haven't spoken with him in _three months_?"

Alfred put his hands up in an attempt to defend himself. "Whoa, chill out, Igs. It hasn't exactly been a picnic over here. I had to deal with angry citizens and bounty hunters and the phone lines were cut off a few weeks ago." Then he added with a smirk. "Besides, we had sex our last meeting, so it was pretty memorable."

Arthur's shocked look made him laugh. "How long have you two been having— _relations_ —such as these?"

"My question exactly, Amerique." Francis commented. "But I don't mind hearing the details too."

"France! Could you stop being a pervert for once?"

"I seriously doubt that, mon cher. My reputation forbids it."

"Anywho…" Alfred continued. "Let's just say it's been ongoing—though casual, it's an open relationship—and that I'm really worried. I just wish I could have found the time to see or speak to him. I hope he's okay."

Francis sighed dreamily. "Oh, how romantic~"

"You disgust me," Arthur snarled. "They're _brothers_."

Francis grinned at him. "Which makes it _forbidden_ love!"

"Perhaps I should start calling you 'Toad'."

"Oh, come on, Angleterre." Francis groaned. "Do you honestly think that other nations that are siblings haven't had sex with each other before?"

"No… but I do think that _you_ have."

"Au contraire, chéri," Francis gave his signature charming smile. "I haven't managed to snag _you_ yet."

"And you never will." Arthur flashed back, making Francis pout.

"Not even with the world ending? Before we die, won't you take pity on me and let me make lo—"

"Okay!" Alfred (aka the cockblock) cut in yet again. "Now, right, down to business. Francis, you'll need to help us since you have a gun. You see, I was trying to take a flight out of here before Iggy suddenly came on a helicopter and we both fell asleep and then we heard this _mega_ loud gunshot—"

"Long story short, we need you to help us defend this terminal from rebels determined to kill us off." Arthur finished for him with agitation. "So, are you up for it?"

Francis sighed, leaning against the wall wearily. "Well, I guess I have no choice. When will they be arriving?"

"10 tomorrow morning,"

Francis stiffened, worsening his already strained back. "Great,"

"So," Alfred urged excitedly. "Is that a 'yes'?"

"Oui," Francis said regretfully. "I will help."

"All right!" Alfred jumped and let out an echoing whoop… which made Arthur pull his ear sharply.

"But only on one condition." Francis added with a smirk, eyes wandering longingly to Arthur.

Arthur took a moment to glare at him. "If you imply that I must have sex with you, don't waste your breath."

Francis pouted. "You're no fun, Angleterre."

"That's not the first time I've heard that, so that insult won't faze me, sorry." Arthur retorted.

"That's right," Alfred cut in proudly. "I told him that first."

"Shut it, git, before I _hack_ your ears off. You wouldn't need them anyway, considering you're deaf as a pole."

Alfred was about to retort, but footsteps approaching made them all freeze. Arthur could feel the hairs stand on the back of his neck. They all reached for their guns, aiming them in the direction of the sound.

A meek blonde man paused in the middle of the terminal at the sight of the three armed men, dropping his bag abruptly and putting his hands up. "Don't shoot! Wait… Al?"

"Mattie," Alfred pocketed his weapon and rushed forward to meet him. They both hugged for a long while. Francis sighed dreamily beside Arthur, causing the Briton to punch him in the shoulder.

"Damn, you worried me sick." Alfred admitted quietly so the others couldn't hear him. He didn't like the idea of being ridiculed as a worthless sap for the remaining few days he might be alive.

Matthew blushed, trying to not get teary-eyed. He'd already lost Cuba, so seeing that his brother was still alive was more than a blessing. "You don't have to, you know."

"It's already hardwired into my brain, bro, can't help that." Alfred replied with a smile. "So… how the hell did you manage to get down here anyway?" By now Francis and Arthur had joined them, forcing Alfred to return to his usual, herolike self.

Matthew slipped a rifle out from his pack and motioned to it. "You're really asking a seasoned hunter that?"

Alfred smirked. "I thought that old tradition of yours had worn out."

Matthew scoffed. "Not even a little. And my survival skills are far better than you know." Then he added with a sneer. "At least _I_ can survive from what I shoot or gather instead of relying on fastfood all the time."

Alfred crossed his arms and defied childishly, "I do not! Since when did you expect was the last time there was a McDonald's open around here? Not for a few months, I'll tell you that."

Matthew rolled his eyes. "Whatever. I'm just glad to see you."

"It's good to see you too, Canada." Arthur stepped forward to pat him on the back.

Francis followed shortly after, giving him a hug. "Oh, mon lapin, I thought you were dead. I should have contacted you the moment the riots broke out. Je suis désolé _._ "

"Tu n'as pas besoin de s'excuser, Papa." Matthew reassured. "Je suis bien _._ "

"Of course you are, Mathieu. I raised you, after all." Francis grinned.

After a short moment of silence—in which Francis and Matthew gazed at each other in adoration and Alfred proceeded to try to figure out what the hell was just exchanged—Arthur snorted, "What kind of compliment was that, Frog?"

Francis stared at him in disbelief. "You… know what we said?"

Arthur looked insulted. "What, did you think I was as thick as America? Of course I did, you git!"

"Since when have you known French?" Alfred gawked.

"Ever since France and I were rivals," Arthur retorted. "I needed to know how to insult him in his own language and after that, I just figured I'd learn the whole thing."

"How much more do we not know about you?" Alfred asked curiously.

Arthur smirked. "Quite a bit, actually, but I'm not willing to reveal all of my secrets." He smirked slyly.

"Uh…" Alfred began seriously, putting an hand on his shoulder. "If you're implying your 'secret' about your hallucinations, we already know."

Arthur slapped his hand away, growling, "They're not hallucinations, git! They're real, live magical beings!"

Alfred rolled his eyes. "Sure, man, you keep believing that."

"So," Francis asked quickly, preventing Arthur from retorting. "How many other languages do you know?"

"Well," Arthur began, ticking them off on his fingers. "There's Anglo-Saxon, though I doubt that really counts seeing as it was one of the first variations of English. Gaelic, Welsh, French, Latin, Spanish, German, Italian, Russian, Hungarian, Portuguese, Dutch, Mandarin Chinese, Japanese, Turkish, Hebrew, Arabic, Farsi, Greek, and Hindi. I also know a few hieroglyphics and Sanskrit as well as some basic criteria of Nordic and Slavic languages. But I'm striving to learn more."

They all looked at him in shock, mouths agape.

"Is it even _possible_ for someone to know so much?" Alfred asked in amazement.

Arthur grinned with pride. "Well, heheh, only for those with _special_ minds."

Alfred thought for a moment. "You're not talking about your hallucinations again, are you?"

"No!"

"Why do you feel the need to, though?" Francis asked curiously.

Arthur folded his arms. "Because, unlike the lot of you, I actually _prefer_ being knowledgeable."

"Don't get such a big head, ami." Francis accused haughtily.

" _I_ have a big head—?"

"Guys!" Matthew shouted in his meek voice, surprisingly silencing them. "Quiet. Do you hear that?"

They all listened for a moment and then Alfred groaned, "Not _another_ plane!"

"This is good," Arthur said.

" _Good?_ Are you okay, Artie?"

"Of course I am!" Arthur snapped. "But seeing as Francis and I were directed to this airport—and this particular _terminal_ , at that—don't you suspect the possibility that more nations are headed to this very spot?"

They all looked at each other, smiles erupting on their faces as they came to the realization.

"Ya know, Iggy," Alfred said with a laugh. "you're smarter than we thought."

Arthur smiled. "Why thank you Alf—" He paused as he took in what the other man just said, then rounded on him, shouting, "Shut your mouth, you impertinent brat! I'll have you know that mocking my intelligence is a very stupid and dangerous thing to—!"

Guns cocking caught their attention

* * *

Translations:

Je suis désolé _-_ I am sorry

Tu n'as pas besoin de s'excuser-You do not need to apologize

Je suis bien-I am well

A Word From the Writer: Yes, I made England a brainiac. Why? Because he's awesome like that.

And I left you with a cliffhanger, haha! Oh, I'm evil. Who do you think they will be? Post your guess.


	9. Then There Were Six

**The awesome has arrived.  
**

Warning: Weapons, injuries, angst, betting on lives.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

  
**Then There Were Six**   


—And they whipped around to see none other than Ludwig and Gilbert. Immediately, the two brothers lowered their weapons, Gilbert waving at them and shouting, "Hey! If it isn't the whole family here to greet the awesome Prussia!"

"Shut up, bruder." Ludwig growled, studying the other refugees. "You have all been here for how long?"

"Ah, don't be like that, Germany." Alfred pouted. "Aren't you glad to see us?"

"Gilbert, mon ami." Francis strode over to him with a broad smile. "It's good to see you're in one piece."

Gilbert chuckled. "Kesese, almost wasn't." He turned to reveal the bloody gashes in his back from the glass.

Francis emitted a small gasp as he examined the damage. "It looks like you were attacked by a bear."

"I'll go with that story, then. Kesesese," Gilbert smirked.

Alfred, being his usual, nosy self, craned his neck to get a good view and winced. "Jesus, Gil, what the fuck happened?"

"We'll get to that later." Ludwig waved a dismissive hand and set down his pack, rummaging in it. "You four don't happen to have any medical supplies, do you?"

"Are you kidding me?" Alfred laughed. "I'm indestructible! Of course I don't have any, man."

"You're not helping, America." Arthur snapped, then continuing considerably more politely, "I'm sorry, mate, I had to leave in a hurry. I didn't have time to grab any."

"It was the same with me, ami." Francis said sympathetically.

"I might have some…" Everyone looked at Matthew, who blanched at the sudden stares. It took him a moment to gather himself long enough to dig through his supply pack. When he found the first aid kit, he sighed with relief and tossed it over to Ludwig. The man caught it with ease, and motioned to Gilbert. "Bruder, come here."

Gilbert snorted, folding his arms. "I really don't need that, West. I'm awesome. Honestly, I think these will heal well on their own."

Ludwig gave him a skeptical look, then demanded in a voice as hard as steel, "Don't give me that load of scheiße. You need medicine, so get your ass over here _right now_." The last two words were ground out between his teeth. It was quite obvious that their flight over to the airport had exasperated Ludwig.

Gilbert feigned a pleading look. "Only if you say 'your _awesome_ ass.'"

_"Gilbert!"_

"Okay! Okay! Sheesh," Gilbert walked over to where his brother crouched over the kit and sat down in the chair before him. "Can't take a joke…"

"A-Alfred?" Matthew asked quietly.

Alfred gave him a warm look. "Yeah, Mattie?"

"I'm feeling a bit tired… I've traveled miles on foot, and it'd be nice if I could rest…"

"Sure, man. C'mon." Alfred led him over to the rows of chairs sitting in front of one of the gates a ways away from the group. "I'm sorry. It's not much, but this is all I've got."

Matthew smiled at his fawning. He really was trying. And you could tell, because Alfred would normally clench and unclench his hands as well as bite his lip when he was nervous or thinking really hard. It was a habit that Alfred had had for a while, but that he himself didn't even seem to notice. "I've had to sleep on the cold, hard ground in the woods for a few weeks, so this chair looks like heaven to me."

"Yeah, well," Alfred laughed sheepishly. "Enjoy."

He ran a hand through Matthew's hair as he settled down. The Canadian gave him a tired smile in reassurance, and Alfred rejoined the group.

"… hold still, dammit."

"I _am_ , Lud. But you're being a bit—Ah!—rough."

Ludwig was digging his fingers into Gilbert's wounds (which honestly was pretty sickening to watch). "I can't help if the glass is deep down in the skin, bruder." Then he said, with bitter humor. "You did this to yourself, you know."

"Are you complaining that the awesome me saved you?"

Ludwig frowned and purposely ripped a shard of glass from Gilbert's back. Gilbert nearly shrieked and arched away from him. "I suggest you remain silent."

Gilbert did just that the rest of the time he was being treated.

Meanwhile, Arthur was pacing the rows of chairs in front of Gate 4, hands gripping his pistol. Francis came striding over to him, relatively calm.

"What do you want, Frog? No one to molest around here?"

"You're pacing," Francis said flatly, ignoring Arthur's jibe.

Arthur looked offended. "You don't think I already know that, git?"

"It's what you do when you're panicked."

_"I'm not panicked!"_

Francis didn't flinch despite Arthur's raised voice, instead raising a skeptical eyebrow.

Arthur gave a frustrated groan, sitting himself in one of the chairs. "All right, perhaps I am. But I'm not the only one, surely. After all, we all do face the very likely possibility of being killed."

Francis let out a soft laugh. "I thought England was always ready for an attack."

"I _am_ always ready!"

"Then why are you so nervous?"

"Because I couldn't—!" Arthur began, shooting up from his chair until he stood nose-to-nose with Francis. His hands were balled into fists, and he would have given anything to yell at him with all his might, but couldn't find the words to. _Because I couldn't save them…_ was what he was about to say, but the words caught in his throat and if he said them, he was afraid that he'd break down right there. He eventually calmed and stepped away, keeping his gaze steady with Francis, despite how incredibly embarrassed he felt. "I am _not_ panicked. I am _not_ nervous. And I am ready for _anything_."

A look of concern flickered across Francis's face—something that Arthur definitely did _not_ want. "You sound as if you are telling yourself that, ami."

Arthur paused a moment, making sure that he wouldn't raise his voice as he had. "I am. This is not a sane world, Francis, if you haven't noticed. It's starting to get to me, especially with all the death I've seen. Sure, I've seen similar things during my days as a pirate and during the wars, but it never struck me as hard as this. Seeing my people die because of what they accuse me of, having to fight them to stay alive, knowing they hate me… it's the worst feeling I've ever had."

Francis's face softened. "I know how you feel, mon ami."

Arthur had the urge to shout 'No, you don't!' but he didn't know what Francis had gone through. He just felt like he was trying to grasp at his future with oiled hands—it simply couldn't be done.

"Well, he's asleep." Alfred approached them with a relieved look. "Later I'll check him for injuries. Speaking of which…" His eyes wandered over to Arthur. "I've been meaning to check you over. That isn't your blood, is it?"

"No, it isn't." It was clear Alfred wanted him to elaborate, but Arthur changed the subject. "So, since we all have nothing to lose, how about we wager on who we think is still alive?"

Francis and Alfred eyed each other.

"You want us to," Alfred began cautiously. "bet on lives?"

"Yes," Arthur said, knowing full well it was wrong, but not caring in the least. He just needed something to distract him from the memories of Lennox and his other brothers. "And since the money we currently have is worthless now, I suggest we bid using… certain keepsakes we brought along with us."

Francis snorted. "How dare you think that I would be selfish enough to bring something completely unnecessary along?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "I know you have _something_ , Francis. I can smell that ghastly cologne you've always worn."

"Oh, so you've noticed?" Francis batted his eyes.

"Okay, then," Alfred smirked cockily. "But I must warn you, I'm quite good at betting. The Kentucky Derby ain't no lie. I have ESP for this kind of shit."

"Sure," Arthur said flatly, then picked up his bag, rummaging through it before finding what he was looking for. He displayed it proudly in his palm. "A compass, and not one of the crappy ones they make nowadays. This is from when I was a pirate."

Alfred now showed off his own item. "Authentic Chippewa dreamcatcher. It absorbs negative images in dreams, and its power has been enhanced by a shaman. It's good luck. The chief of one of the _odoodemaan_ (1) gave it to me as a peace offering many years ago."

Alfred smiled when he received rather surprised stares from Francis and Arthur.

Francis then cleared his throat and produced his item. It was a little sac he dangled delicately from his fingertips. "An aphrodisiac. One of the most potent in the world. Very rare, and very handy when it comes to wooing that special someone~" He sang the last few words and waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Arthur scoffed. " _Of course_ you would bring that, of all things."

"Ironic," Francis smirked. "I've been keeping this for a while and have been planning to use it on you." Then he sighed woefully. "But I guess I'll have to give that plan up… for now."

Arthur scoffed and tried to hide his blush. "Whatever. Alfred, you're up. You can list only four people you think are still alive and one that you think is not."

"Okay, then. Lemme think, hmm…" Alfred's eyes focused on the ceiling as he thought, a finger stroking his chin. Arthur and Francis sighed as they waited for a quite a long time. "I think that Japan, China, Turkey, and the Italian bros—let's just make them count as one person, I mean, they're really one country, right?—are still alive. But definitely _not_ Russia. He's not nearly as heroic and brave as me."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Okay, I'll go next. I believe that the remaining survivors besides us are China, Japan, _Russia_ ,"—Arthur smirked as he put emphasis on the name and Alfred shot him a glare—"and the Vargas's. I don't think Turkey could have survived with his history."

"I suppose that makes me last, then." Francis said, then began, "Hmm… That would be China, Japan, Turkey, and Russia. There is a very slim possibility that Lovino and Feliciano could have survived, though I regret saying it."

Alfred's nose scrunched up in confusion. "How the hell did we end up listing the same people?"

"That _is_ a bit uncanny." Arthur said, contemplating it. "Well, perhaps we think the same—though I highly doubt it's the _exact_ same—way? So… why did you choose those nations, Alfred?"

"Well… Japan is a supercool ninja and he also has a _ton_ of technology, so I went on that theory. I figured that since China is _mega_ old, that he's wise in this area. I mean, how else could he have survived as long as he has? Then there's Turkey… I hate the shit out of him, but I have to admit, he's a persistent son of a bitch. Trust me, I've had to deal with his descendents. And I don't think there's any reason I have to explain why I think Russia is dead."

Arthur began, "Unlike _you_ , America, I haven't let my previous grievances with other countries get in the way of my predictions. Japan and China I chose for mostly the same reasons as you, except for the fact that Japan advances very fast and is good at dealing with sudden changes. The Vargas's seemed too cowardly and scatter-brained for me to choose first, but after some thought I figured with both their minds working in sync, they could have pretty decent chance. Besides, they're good at running away. Russia I chose because I know that after his particularly bloody past, he most likely won't let himself become weakened by the Uprising. Turkey was a tough choice, but I concluded that after being the former Ottoman Empire—and he was weak during his last few decades of life and didn't adjust to change well at that stage—being as stubborn and proud as he is, he won't stand a chance."

Francis then went on, "China and Japan I chose for the same reasons as both of you, and Turkey I chose because he _is_ persistent and was taught by his mistakes and he also ruled at one point most of the Balkans and Middle East. Russia was easy for me to choose… he did prove to be unusually strong during my Revolution and resilient during his thereafter. That, and he also is known to have a violent streak. Lovino and Feliciano, though, are a pair who don't adapt well to violence. Most likely, they're still trapped in their own countries and will remain there until someone rescues them, like they always have been. My poor Lovino, how I miss him…" He sighed regretfully.

They had been so engrossed in their conversation and Gilbert and Ludwig were shouting so loudly at each other, that none of them noticed the whir of helicopter blades just outside until just a minute before the passengers emerged from the Gate.

The group heard them way before they saw them. Entering the terminal was a peeved Lovino and a hysterical Feliciano.

* * *

No translations

References:

1- _Odoodemaan_ is the plural form of 'clan' in _Ojibwemowin_ , the language of the Ojibwe (commonly known as the Chippewa) native to Northern Midwest and Northeast America and Southern Canada.

A Word From the Writer: You all know this couldn't be a good fic without the Italies. And does anyone think England is a _little_ uptight? No?


	10. Then There Were Eight

**And cue the hard-assery. XD  
**

Warning: Weapons, injuries, innuendo.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Then There Were Eight**

"You idiot!" Lovino was shouting at the top of his lungs, struggling to walk with Feliciano leaning on him for support. "Do you not know how to take care of yourself?"

"Lovino, please don't shout!" Feliciano was in tears. "Please don't be angry with me! I didn't mean to!"

"What do you mean you didn't _mean_ to?" Lovino asked venomously.

Feliciano fidgeted on Lovino's arm, making his injured shoulder smart. "I-I d-don't know! I was s-scared! Please, don't hate m-me!"

Lovino rolled his eyes, trying to hide the fact that his own brother thought that he hated him made his heart sink. "Of course I don't hate you, dammit."

"Lovino?" Francis stood frozen, pleasantly surprised.

"Looks like you were wrong, Frog." Arthur smirked.

"Wine Bastard?" Lovino looked up in shock. "England? America?" He frowned. "Potato Bastard and Potato Bastard's brother?"

"And Canada," Alfred added, walking over and throwing Feliciano's other arm over his shoulders. He helped the still-crying man hobble his way over to the chairs.

"How the hell did you guys get here?" Lovino asked, settling down in the chair next to his brother, who buried his face in Lovino's uninjured shoulder and continued sobbing. Lovino gently patted Feliciano's head as he continued, "Was there some sort of message I didn't receive?" He looked more than a bit peeved now.

"No, we were just directed here." Arthur replied.

"Eh, look who is joining us!" Gilbert called from across the room. He stood and waggled his hips. "The party is just starting, right bruder? Kesesese,"

Ludwig glared at him. "Shut up and sit down." He waited until Gilbert did as he asked before walking over to investigate, wiping his bloody hands on his shirt. "Veneziano?"

Feliciano lifted his face from his brother's shoulder and sniffed, his eyes puffy. "G-Germany!" He moved to attach himself to the other man, but Lovino prevented him from doing so.

"Don't go near the Potato Bastard, fratello."

"You look hurt." Ludwig said to Lovino, eyes examining his bloody shoulder.

Lovino hissed. "Touch me, and I'll rip your wurst off, bastard."

"Whoa, there, Romano." Alfred said, craning his neck to get a good look at his injuries. "There's no need to get hostile. And… Germany does have point."

"Nosy git…" Arthur muttered.

Lovino sat back in his chair, still holding his sniveling brother with his good arm. "It's nothing. Feli's in worse shape than I am by far."

A flash of concern showed in Ludwig's eyes, but it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared. "Oh? What happened?"

Lovino sighed. "The damn idiot nearly starved himself to death."

Francis looked worried. "Mon Dieu! How horrible. How?"

Lovino glared at him. "What do you mean _how_ , Wine Bastard? He fucking starved himself, what else can I say?"

"Well," Feliciano began after a few sniffles. "The Uprising broke out and it was really scary, so I didn't come out of my house and tried to call Lovi, but he wouldn't answer, so I tried calling Germany, but he didn't answer either, and I didn't know Japan's phone number, and I didn't know where Lovino was so I sat in the corner of my living room and listened to the gunshots, and it was so scary, and I didn't answer my phone because I thought the bad people could trace my calls, and I didn't eat because I was too scared to get up, so I didn't move and stayed as still and as quiet as I could for a few days, then I heard a loud noise outside, and I cried because I thought it was the bad people coming to get me, so when I heard someone knocking at my door and shouting for me to let them in I said 'Go away' but then I realized it was Lovi, so I opened the door and he came in and started yelling at me because he was angry I didn't take care of myself, and then he said he came in a helicopter and picked me up because I my legs felt all tingly and numb and carried me out to the helicopter and started climbing the ladder up to the cabin, and then the rebels found us and started shooting at us and I got really scared and started crying again, and Lovino told me to climb onto his stomach so that I wouldn't get hit, but I didn't want to because I was afraid I would fall off, but he shouted at me and I did, and then I was grateful for doing it because I would have been shot if I stayed on his back, so Lovino climbed until we reached the cabin and he pushed me into it, and when I turned around to help pull him up, he took a bullet to the shoulder and started dangling by one hand and I thought I was going to lose him and started crying again, and it was so hard to hold him by myself because he was so _heavy_ , and he kept telling me to let him go but I said that I wouldn't and then I pulled him into the cabin and he shut the door and I cried again and Lovino told me we were coming here and said that he hoped America was still alive, even Germany, and then we came here and I felt dizzy and Lovino kept yelling at me to stay awake, and I cried because I thought he hated me for not looking after myself and now we're here and I'm so glad to see everyone and now I feel… a little… tired…" Feliciano panted from the effort of telling his long story and laid his head back on Lovino's shoulder.

"So," Ludwig said. "That's why I couldn't reach Veneziano."

Francis raised his eyebrows. "Where exactly _were_ you, Lovino?"

"That's none of your business, Wine Bastard!" Lovino snapped.

"Cool it, bro." Alfred said. "We only wanna help you."

"Ja," Gilbert said, suddenly standing among them. Arthur and Alfred flinched when they saw him standing behind them when he wasn't there just a moment ago. "My awesomeness will heal you!"

"Shut up, Prussia." Arthur growled, then offered his hand to Feliciano. "We want to help you Veneziano. Will you let us?"

Lovino glared at him for a long while before finally letting go of his brother and saying, "As long as the Potato Bastards and the Wine Bastard don't touch him."

Francis looked hurt. "But I missed you, Lovi. Didn't you miss me, too?"

Lovino scoffed, standing to help his brother into Arthur's arms. " _You_? Why in the hell would I miss a perverted, wine-drinking, cheese-sniffing bastard?"

Francis pouted. "Oh, you don't mean that, cher."

Ludwig approached Lovino slowly from the side, placing his hands gently on his injured shoulder. "This looks bad. It has gone right through the muscle."

Lovino rounded on Ludwig, shaking him off his arm. "Get away from me, Wurst Breath!" Then he gave a growl of pain, hunching over and grabbing his left arm as it throbbed from the injury in his shoulder. " _Dammit…_ "

Francis rushed forward, providing Lovino support as he swayed a bit, dizzy from the pain. "Sit down, ami. You lost a lot of blood."

Lovino glared at him. "Don't, ngh, don't touch me, bastard…"

"What the hell is all this noise?" Matthew's small voice had an undertone of annoyance as he pushed his way through the group circled around the two brothers. Matthew's indigo eyes widened when he saw them. "Oh, the Italy's? Are you all right?"

"Of course we're not…!" Lovino snarled, angered by the pain, and he couldn't think of an insult because he didn't know who the hell this was. "Uh…"

Matthew frowned. "Canada. Have it your way, then. I _could_ help you, though."

Alfred stared at him. "What fucking university did _you_ go to, man?"

Matthew smirked. "The University of Preparedness." Then he pushed past them to where Feliciano was leaning on Arthur.

"He hasn't eaten anything in a few days." Arthur reported. "And hasn't moved from a single spot in two."

Matthew examined him for a moment before concluding, "Yep, dehydrated and malnourished. The muscles in his legs are also cramped from sitting in the same position for too long, that's probably why he can't feel them. He also seems to have a slight fever." Matthew tested his forehead with his hand. "Nothing I can't handle. I've packed all the necessary equipment, so he'll be fine within a couple of days."

"And what about Lovino?" Francis queried, worry-stricken.

Matthew turned to him, and nearly gasped with the sight of a massive blood stain soaking Lovino's left sleeve. He walked over to him, fingers gently prodding around the wound, ignoring the hisses and insults Lovino muttered under his breath. "The bullet's still lodged in his shoulder. You were right, Germany. Tore straight through the deltoid muscle. This'll take a lot more time to heal."

Lovino's now frightened face met Matthew's. "Will… will I recover?"

"You will," Matthew said slowly. "But not unless we get that bullet out. Infection is the last thing your shoulder needs."

"You mean, you have to _dig_ it out?" Lovino squeaked on the word 'dig.'

"Yes," Matthew replied. "I'm sorry Lovino, but it has to come out." Then he turned to examine the rest of the group. "But I'm sort of squeamish when dealing with things like that."

"I will do it." Not surprisingly, it was Ludwig who volunteered. "Gilbert had similar injuries, but with glass, and I managed to get them out perfectly fine."

Gilbert laughed nervously. "Kesese, just don't insult him, and it'll be near painless."

"That bastard is not touching me!" Lovino snapped, defiantly, though he still looked a bit partial to the idea. He just wanted the damn thing out, one way or the other.

"Please, Lovi," Feliciano begged from his place seated in an adjacent chair. "Germany won't hurt you."

"I doubt that," Lovino muttered, then after much deliberation said, "Fine. But do anything funny, and I'll kick you Potato ass, got it?"

Ludwig nodded. "You don't have to worry." Then he added slowly, "But I cannot guarantee it won't hurt a little."

Lovino sighed wearily. "I know," He turned to Matthew who was now offering a cracker and some water to Feliciano. "Take care of him, please. I can't much take care of the idiot in my _condition_." The last word was dripping with spite.

With that, Lovino grudgingly let Ludwig escort him to where he left the first aid kit.

"Christ," Alfred said. "Romano carrying his brother up the ladder to a helicopter amid open fire. The world has officially turned upside down."

"You're telling me," Arthur said. "Since when has Romano let me touch him—let _anyone_ touch him?"

"Looks like I still might have a chance, eh?" Francis nudged Arthur in the shoulder with a leer.

Arthur rolled his eyes, a disgusted look on his face. "Do you _ever_ stop being a pervert?"

"Never, mon chéri."

Matthew yawned and stretched. "Well, I guess I won't be getting much sleep now. Come on, Veneziano. Please, eat something."

Feliciano shook his head, keeping his lips sealed shut. "No! Crackers don't taste good!"

Matthew sighed in exasperation. "I'm sorry, Veneziano, but I don't have any pasta or anything else you might like. Besides, your stomach can't handle anymore than this right now."

Feliciano finally relented, realizing his defiance was pointless. With a tentative bite, he chewed the cracker and swallowed it with a grimace. "It's dry," he choked out.

"That's why I have this." Matthew gave him the water bottle and Feliciano took a couple of long pulls from it. "That's enough." Matthew said prying the bottle from Feliciano's hand. "You'll make yourself sick doing that."

"But I'm thirsty." Feliciano pouted.

Matthew shook his head. "You've lasted this long without water, I'm sure you can last a bit longer."

"So," Arthur began, throwing an I-told-you-so look at Francis. "You were wrong."

Francis watched as Ludwig tended to Lovino. They didn't seem to be having much luck getting the bullet out of his shoulder with Lovino squirming away from Ludwig when he even got close to touching him. "Oui, but I have been known to be wrong. At least I'm not ashamed to admit it." He smirked at Arthur.

Arthur scoffed, "I'm not wrong, France. Turkey is dead."

"Don't be so sure, ami."

"Yeah," Alfred interjected, coming over to them after a brief absence, stuffing his face with chips. "He's a tough little shit, I'll give 'im that." His words were barely decipherable between his crunching.

Arthur gave him a disgusted look. "So I see that you've found the vending machines."

"Yup," Alfred said, offering him the bag. "D'ya want some? I busted the glass, so there's plenty more."

"No thank you, Alfred." Arthur grimaced.

"France?"

"I don't think that would suit my figure, amour."

Arthur gave Francis a how-could-you-care-about-that-now look, but Francis flashed him back an I-was-desperate-to-get-out-of-eating-that-crap look.

Alfred shrugged and finished the bag in moments. Then he said, "When do we call off the bets?"

Arthur thought for a second. "Well… as of now we have four hours until the rebels arrive, so we'll call it off then."

"Are you really serious?" Alfred gawked at his watch. "It's already five in the fucking morning?"

"Oh là là, so it is!" Francis said, looking at his own watch. "We should be resting now, oui?"

Arthur nodded. "One of us should keep watch, though."

"Since you brought it up, bro, I vote you." Alfred said. "'Night," And he headed off in the direction of the chairs before Arthur could object.

Arthur looked pleadingly at Francis—which took a lot of strength for him to do—but the Frenchman only shook his head. "I have to get my beauty sleep, cher. Sorry,"

Arthur huffed with annoyance as he watched Francis walk off, letting his eyes roam to examine the older man's arse. Well… that certainly was quite the asset. Arthur caught himself and shook his head with disgust as he turned around, taking out his gun and cocking it, scolding himself. "Damn addled brain, making me a delirious dumbarse…"

He eventually concluded that he would keep watch for an hour, then wake Francis. After all, the other man deserved it for taking advantage of Arthur's scattered mind.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Dat ass. Even England can't resist it. XD


	11. Then There Were Nine

**Shit goes down... that's why this is so long.  
**

Warning: Tension, drug use, weapons, an almost-fight, innuendo.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**And Then There Were Nine**

Arthur was startled awake by approaching footsteps. He blinked his tired eyes, looking at his watch. _6:17… Damn!_ He'd been asleep for over fifteen minutes! Now Francis or some other member of the group was coming over to scold or taunt him. _Hell if that happens!_ Arthur moved to turn around from his place sitting crosslegged on the floor, when something cold and metallic was pushed against the back of his head. He recognized the cock of a gun, and his heart began to race. He must have fallen asleep and someone was able to get in! _I'll never be able to live this down…_ if _I live after this._

A chuckle sounded from behind him. "You have fallen asleep, hm? How negligent." The voice was deep and jeering.

Arthur didn't respond, afraid that if he said anything, he would be shot instantly.

That seemed the right thing to do. The man laughed again, a rumbling growl that made a chill shoot up Arthur's spine. "You cannot account for your actions, I see? Oh, well, I suppose I will, then." He pushed the gun further into Arthur's head.

Okay, this was crazy. He had to say _something_. "Wait! Who are you? A rebel?"

No response. But the barrel of the gun was still pressed close to his skull.

Arthur wet his lips. "If… if you tell me what you want, I'll give it to you. Anything. Just tell me what you want…"

There was a minute-long silence that seemed to last an hour to Arthur, who was now sweating nervously.

The man behind him finally said, "Tell you what I want, hm? How about you give me…" He paused, seeming to decide what he wanted. "A hand?"

At first, a flash of fear pulsed through Arthur, thinking that the man was requesting his actual hand. But then his logic kicked in and he asked anxiously, "You-you want me to… _help_ you?"

"On the contrary, comrade, I want to help _you_. Give me your hand."

Arthur could hear it now, the accent in the man's voice. He should have known. Arthur laughed with relief (which was certainly a first for him when greeting this person) when he grabbed the hand offered to him and was pulled rapidly upward to come face-to-face with no other than Ivan Braginsky.

"Russia, you sneaky bastard," Arthur couldn't keep the laugh out of his voice as he released Ivan's chilled hand.

Ivan smirked. "At your service, comrade. I have traveled far to get here, and I see many others have as well."

 _So, Russia's not dead after all? I'll have a hell of time telling Alfred this._ Arthur returned the smirk. "I'm sure America will be delighted to see you again."

Ivan chuckled. "Isn't he always?"

"Yeah, still have your pipe?"

"Always,"

"Good," Arthur said. "Because America's the deafest git I've ever seen. You'll need to wake him up, you know."

A creepy smile consumed Ivan's face. "Good. I'm in need of a stress reliever."

"Just don't get too slap-happy, okay?"

_"What the fucking hell is this?!"_

They turned to see Alfred and the rest of the group staring at them, their guns out and ready. Feliciano was cowering behind Matthew, who had his rifle aimed at Ivan, and Lovino was peeking out from behind the well-armed Ludwig.

Arthur rolled his eyes before answering, "It's Russia, you gits. Put down your weapons."

"Russia?" Alfred's now alert voice echoed throughout the terminal, making them all cringe as their ears were assaulted. "Is this supposed to be some kinda joke, Artie?"

"It is not," Ivan responded, and Arthur laughed aloud when he saw all the color drain from Alfred's face. "I am alive and here, Amerika. It is good to know that you missed me."

"How did you even _get_ here?"

"The same way you all have, I suppose." Ivan replied. "Though I wanted to die by the hands of my own people, I was handcuffed and forced to take a flight here. Rather inconvenient for me, but I am getting used to it."

Alfred scoffed bitterly. "Your commie ass should still be in Russia."

Ivan gave him his signature shut-the-fuck-up-or-I'll-kill-you smile. "I wouldn't be saying that, America. After all, I have nothing to lose." He pulled aside his coat for a moment to partially reveal his hidden pipe.

Alfred's expression changed to that of horror and he took a few steps back. "C-c-cool it, dude. I didn't mean it, heheheheh…"

There was a long stretch of silence before Ivan asked with a warning look, "What? Aren't you all glad to see me?"

Everyone forced smiles and gave weak replies of 'uh huh', 'always nice to see you, man', and 'nothing like waking up to you in the morning'.

Ivan smiled with the replies. "Good. So, bring me up to speed on our status, da?"

Arthur filled in what he could, some of the group adding to the story as he went along. He revealed the suicide of their pilot and the rebels' plan to attack the terminal at 11 the next morning. At the end, Arthur added, "We are all armed in some manner. What do you have to offer?"

The way Ivan's eyes excitedly lit up made Arthur's stomach turn over. Maybe he shouldn't have phrased his question that way…

"You already know I have my pipe," said Ivan, reaching under his coat again—the coat that concealed pipes and pickaxes and all sorts of horrendous things. What more could he possibly have? "But I also have this." He took an assault rifle out of his coat, seeming to show it off. Arthur was alarmed to see that it had been polished like it was a trophy of some sort.

Alfred broke away from the group to walk over to Ivan, though cautiously, to examine the gun. He eventually snorted, "AK-47. As expected,"

"Of course," Ivan smiled again, and Alfred took a few steps away. "You were expecting something else?"

"That thing's not loaded, is it?" Alfred asked somewhat shakily as he scooted closer to Arthur, who stood calmly, watching Alfred with amusement.

Ivan gave him a puzzled look. "Well, if it was not, I couldn't properly use it then, da?"

"What else are you hiding in that coat, Russia?" Arthur asked curiously.

Ivan carefully stowed away his rifle, making Alfred noticeably relax. "That is for me to know and for you to find out." he said with a smile.

"Th-that's not right!" Alfred stuttered, looking pleadingly at Arthur. "Right, Artie? He can't keep information like that from us!"

"He is entitled to his privacy." Arthur said, amusement bubbling up inside of him as Alfred blanched. Even though he himself was scared shitless at the idea of Ivan having more lethal devices hidden on his person, Arthur preferred plaguing Alfred with paranoia, as he was always so easily prone to it, especially with Russia. "He will reveal whatever else he has with him whenever he feels up to it."

Alfred gave him a loathing glare before he retreated to the far corner of the terminal to sulk, his back to them.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Childish git…" Then he turned to Ivan, studying his outfit more closely. "Are you wearing your World War II army uniform?"

Ivan adjusted his officer's cap. "Da, comrade. I wanted to die with honor. Ironic that I will now be wearing it to survive amongst a civil war."

"Let's just hope it doesn't see too many battles." Arthur said.

"On the contrary," Ivan replied. "It is a seasoned veteran."

"R-Russia?" Matthew flinched when Ivan turned his gaze on him, letting out a soft 'eep.' "Are… are you hurt?"

Ivan paused a moment, examining himself as if his whole body was frozen with numbness. "Nyet, comrade. Just a bit hungry and tired."

"America broke a vending machine down that hall." Arthur motioned to his left. "There's food there if you want it. But you know how American food is. I suggest you don't go near the stuff unless you want to die of a heart attack."

Ivan shrugged. "I haven't eaten in a while. Besides, it would take a lot to kill me."

Ivan held Arthur's gaze for a moment too long, and a shiver coursed up Arthur's spine. "It's your choice." His voice wavered as he spoke.

Ivan smiled, as if in satisfaction and said in his creepy, childlike voice, "Be back soon~"

Arthur shivered as he watched the Russian depart. _Thank God I'm not related to him… though then I might stand a better chance of not being killed by him._

He walked back over to the group where Gilbert seemed particularly riled. He was pacing back and forth anxiously, his usually carefree attitude gone. "Fucking _dammit_! Why the hell does _he_ of all people have to show up? It's enough already that we're fucking screwed, now we have a mentally-cracked ex-Soviet with an AK-47 and who else knows what glaring us down…"

"Sit down, bruder," Ludwig sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He had stopped trying to wrestle Lovino down to extract the bullet from his shoulder and he was already well beyond frustrated. "You are making this worse."

"Ve~! Russia is here!" Feliciano exclaimed. "Now we'll all be safe, right, Germany?"

"I'm not so sure about that, Veneziano."

"If that borscht-eating bastard tries to come near me or Feli, I'll rip is frozen dick off." Lovino growled through gritted teeth.

"You seem to be talking about castration a lot lately, Lovi~" Francis smirked suggestively, reaching out to twirl a finger around his ahoge. "Have something on your mind, mon chéri?"

Lovino let a gasp and a 'chigi' escape before he could stop himself, pushing Francis roughly away from him. "Keep your perverted hands to yourself, Wine Bastard."

"It's too early in the morning to be arguing, you guys." Matthew cut in softly. "Doncha think?"

And… he was ignored.

"Oh?" Francis leered. "Did I do something _stimulating_?"

Lovino was giving him a death glare. "I'll do something stimulating to your nose if you keep on!" He curled his hand into a fist, showing it to Francis, though he was slightly trembling.

Francis forewent the warning. "I wouldn't mind you doing _anything_ stimulating to me, chéri."

"You know what I mean, dammit!"

" _Do_ I, Lovino?"

"Fucking bastard! I'm surprised you've even survived this long, what with all the diseases you've most likely picked up from your sleeping around!"

Francis looked more than offended. "How dare you accuse me of such negligence! I know when to use protection."

"You'll sure as hell need it now, damn bastard!"

"Are you suggesting something, Lovino?" Francis waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Lovino was red in the face, about to yell back another remark, when Matthew decided that enough was enough and he was too damn tired to care if he was punched in the face. _"GUYS, ENOUGH!"_

Everyone's eyes went to Matthew, wide and surprised. Even Alfred turned to see what the hell was going on that could possibly move Matthew to use his rarely-heard 'scary voice.'

Matthew sighed. "Okay, I think that's enough for tonight. But you guys can continue with your shouting match if you want—I don't give a damn. I just want to get some rest before the rebels start using me for target practice tomorrow morning. But that's just me."

Ludwig stood. "You're right. Rest would serve us well now."

Francis pouted, disappointed that he hadn't gotten to hassle Lovino more, but eventually gave in under Matthew's stern gaze. "D'accord, mon fils. Come, shall we share a few chairs together?" He smirked.

Matthew rolled his eyes. "I'm perfectly fine sleeping on my own, Francis."

"Who said that I intended to sleep?" Francis said suggestively.

Matthew felt his ears heat up, but he wouldn't let his brother verbally molest him. He also wouldn't let himself give a fierce remark like Lovino. He knew how to handle his haughty older brother. "I did. And unless you feel like dying tomorrow, I suggest you take my advice."

A smile of satisfaction adorned Matthew's face when he heard Francis give an arrogant snort, and the former turned on his heel, retreating to where he left his makeshift bed across the terminal.

Francis didn't follow. Damn, and he was on a roll too… Trying to make up for his fumble, he smiled and laughed, "Honhonhon, a little spitfire, isn't he?"

Ludwig raised his eyebrows. "Ja, whatever. I am going to get some rest. Italies, come with me."

"Ve~Okay!" Feliciano agreed immediately with a grin.

Lovino, though, looked malicious. "Who made you the boss of me, bastard?"

Ludwig sighed in exasperation. "Fine. You don't have to follow my orders. I was merely offering to help you with your wounds."

Lovino looked dumbfounded for a moment. He hadn't expected sympathy from the Potato Bastard. Oh, well, that still didn't change anything. He was still a wurst-eating dick. "I don't need your pity, dammit. I can take care of myself."

"Not with that bullet lodged in there, you won't." Ludwig said.

Lovino didn't know what to do. Damn, he was backed into a corner! After a moment's pondering, he replied with a sigh, "All right, bastard. But one slip-up, and I'll—!"

"Ja, ja, I know." Ludwig cut in, ignoring the glare he received from Lovino. With that, he turned around and headed for chairs a few rows away from Matthew, who was already dozing, the two brothers following close behind him.

That left Gilbert, Francis, and Arthur standing in the center of the terminal.

"Well," Gilbert began with a shrug and a smirk. "If we're going to die, I might as well die happy."

Francis lifted an eyebrow. "If you want to have sex with me, ami, you should just say it. I know you'd be anything but ashamed and I won't be either."

"Nah," Gilbert waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, making Francis frown. "I'm much too tired for sex. But I have brought some of my _awesome_ booze. You want some?"

Francis grimaced a bit, but eventually shrugged. "I'm more of a wine-drinking man, but I guess beer isn't that far off. Anything to get my mind off this hell."

The two retreated to sit beside the arch of Gate 3, Gilbert pulling a flask from his bag and they passed it between them.

Arthur huffed and angrily grumbled to himself. _It looks like I'll be the one on watch again. Selfish gits…_ His eyes wandered over to where Gilbert and Francis sat, drunkenly laughing with each other. Alcohol did sound good at the moment…

"You look troubled, comrade." Ivan's voice startled Arthur. The taller man had finished eating, it seemed. He must have been as hungry as a bear. _We all are…_ Arthur thought.

"Damn, don't scare me like that. So, how was the 'meal'?"

Ivan smirked. "It is my specialty. And the food was awful, as you warned. But at least my stomach is well. I can say less for my arteries…"

Arthur laughed. "Yeah, well, that's what you get." A moment of silence stretched between, during which Ivan smiled creepily at Arthur, making him extremely uncomfortable. Sure they had been comrades in the World Wars, but that was when Ivan was in his own country, far away from Britain. Though deeming him and his people as pariahs after the first war and not including them in the peace treaty was probably not the best thing to have done if Arthur wanted no hard feelings between them…

He cleared his throat nervously and his eyes wandered over to Alfred, still sitting with his back to them across the room, slumped over with the bad posture Arthur remembered scolding him about when he was younger. "Stupid git… always over dramatizes everything. So incredibly childish and imperceptive—it's a wonder to think I actually raised him." When Ivan didn't say anything, only stared at him curiously, Arthur sighed and said, "I'd better go check on him. Lord knows what stupor of paranoia he's gotten himself into by now."

Arthur walked casually over to Alfred, stopping a few feet from him when he noticed a swirling coil of smoke rising from where the younger man sat. A moment of panic flashed though him. _The idiot's set himself on fire! … No wait, that can't be right… we'd certainly hear about by now, unless…_

Arthur cautiously approached him, craning his neck to seek out the source of the smoke.

Alfred noticed his shadow and turned around, his eyes puzzled at the sight of his older brother. "Hey, Iggy, whatcha doin'?"

Arthur winced as his beautiful language was chopped into bits by the American's bad grammar. "That's precisely what I was going to ask you. Is that a… cigarette?" Arthur's mind was addled by the scene: Alfred sitting hunched over, a cigarette held lightly between two fingers. Alfred hadn't smoked since the sixties, when he concluded cigarettes were bad for your health and promptly quit cold turkey. Though, Arthur didn't know why he only ruled smoking out as unhealthy, what with all his other addictions and bad habits.

"It's a joint," Alfred said, surprising him further. He offered his own to him. "D'you want one?"

"Uh… well…"

"Haven't you ever smoked weed before, bro?"

"Well, yes," Arthur replied, looking slightly offended. "I've done plenty of drugs in my lifetime." _Is that something I should be bragging about? Oh, who cares!_ He sat beside Alfred, taking his joint and took a long drag, holding in a cough. He had been too busy dealing with the Uprising to smoke like he often did. _Well, it definitely has been a while…_ He could taste Alfred on the poorly-rolled paper—strong and beefy. _Ugh._

"Strange," Arthur mumbled, blowing smoke from his mouth and watching lazily as it crawled upward to the ceiling, his mind going peculiarly light. "With all your anti-smoking campaigns, I thought this would be the last thing I would see you doing. And then you have Mexico and Canada shipping all sorts of drugs into your country, and you always try to be the hero—"

"Shut up," Alfred said coldly, lighting himself another joint. He just wanted the stress to go away. Screw sticking to promises.

"Pardon me?" Arthur tried to keep from growling. _Disrespectful brat!_

"Just… don't." Alfred continued, taking a long pull on the end and blowing the smoke through his teeth. "I don't need to know how much I've fucked up in the past year."

Arthur felt his heart sink.

"And fucked up you have." Ivan's voice made them both jump. He was standing beside them, swigging something that was most likely vodka out of a flask and not looking the least bit drowsy. "I will take one of those." And he snatched the pack from Alfred's hand, taking a joint and lighting it without any source whatsoever, making them both gawk.

Alfred glared at him nonetheless. "Oh, _I'm_ the fuck up?" He let out a spiteful laugh. "Look back through a couple chapters in your own history and then tell me who fucked up the most."

Arthur flinched, not knowing whether to get out of the way of what looked to be a fight in the making or stay put and stop it. Though he knew the latter was not likely to end well for him.

But Ivan only smiled his 'fuck you' smile, though Arthur didn't quite know if he should be relieved or not. "I keep warning you to not insult me, Amerika, and yet you still go on as if you mean to provoke me." Ivan puffed his joint, somehow making him look even bigger than he already was.

Alfred snorted, smoke streaming from his nostrils as he did. "I'll 'mean' to do something else pretty soon if you don't drop it. I mean it, Russia. I'm not scared of you."

Ivan frowned, flashing his pipe once again. "Want to bet?"

Alfred took a last pull off his joint and stood, dropping it and quelling the light with the toe of his shoe. "Leave me the fuck alone, commie bastard. I'm not in the mood for your bitching."

"Oh, but I wasn't the one who was bitching in the first place, stubborn swine."

" _What_ did you just call me?"

 _Oh, God…_ Arthur stood, coming uncomfortably between the two seething men. "Look… gentlemen, this is not the way to settle disputes…"

"Oh, and what is _your_ method then, England?" Ivan growled, glaring him down with eyes that were as deadly as knives. "Screwing people over?"(1)

Arthur reddened with anger. "Now, see here, I'm not the only one to blame for that—"

"Shut up, Iggy, you're making it worse." Alfred roughly shoved him aside and Arthur gave an 'oof' as he staggered out of the way.

Everyone was staring at them now. Francis and Gilbert had broken out of their drunken reverie, watching them idly, too drunk to do anything. Ludwig was observing the fight with his hand on the grip of his gun, Feliciano crying hysterically behind him and Lovino watching with distant annoyance.

"Ya know," Alfred said with venom. "You're a real ass. I wish I would have known it long before I agreed to have anything to do with you."

"If I would have known that you're such an incompetent fool, I would have never commissioned Cuba to attack you and just nuked you myself." Ivan rebuked bitterly.

Alfred was positively red with rage now. His hands were balled into trembling fists at his sides. "Was it because you didn't know or because you were such a coward that you didn't attack me yourself, huh?"

In a flash, Ivan was standing chest-to-chest with Alfred. A streak of fright flashed in Alfred's eyes at their sudden closeness and made Ivan smirk. "Your mouth spews poison and your ears are deaf to all but what you want to hear. Your eyes are blind from looking too long at yourself, trying to make yourself better when you can't admit you're weak. Your mind is numb from denying your mistakes. Your heart beats for yourself, for it is to enhance your own pride when you 'help' others. Your desire to be the hero you've wanted to be has sent you on a never-ending path to inflate your own ego. Because of these things, you have ignored the rest of the world." Then with a final sneer, Ivan bent down to his level, almost nose-to-nose with the now furious Alfred and said, "Because of these things, you deny that the destruction being dealt to your country and your people is _your fault_." He hissed the last two words.

Alfred stared maliciously at Ivan for a moment. In that moment, Arthur thought that from Alfred's now waist-high fist, the knuckles white with rage, he was going to be the witness to an all-out fight between the two powers. But Alfred seemed frozen by his anger and also a bit… lost. As if he didn't know what to do.

 _He's trying to convince himself it's not true._ Arthur finally gauged, recognizing the torn confusion in his ex-colony's eyes.

And Ivan stood there. Just stood there. A smile on his face. His arms crossed. Relishing the fact that his long-time rival was breaking down before him. He chuckled, as if daring the other man to punch him, to give him an excuse to start a fight. Because if he didn't start it, then that would be more proof that his statements were all true.

Alfred took a step back, then another, until he was no longer so close to Ivan. Arthur felt helpless. What would he do to stop them? He couldn't just shoot them!

 _Come on, Germany, you know how to deal with this shit…_ He tossed a desperate glance at Ludwig, but the man seemed just as hesitant as Arthur felt. _So, even Germany is scared of him._

Well, that was just peachy.

Alfred stood there for a long while, a heated debate going on inside of him. Was it true? No, it couldn't be… he was good, he knew it… isn't that what he lived for? Had he gone too far? No… the hero could never go too far, never… but, then again, the hero also wouldn't let his city—his _country_ , no less—fall into such a state.

Not knowing what to do, Alfred raised his fist and, at the last minute, turned and punched the wall beside him with a frustrated grunt. When he withdrew his fist, there was a large hole in the plaster that surely would have knocked someone out cold if it had hit its intended target.

Arthur was speechless as Alfred turned on his heel and stomped off, muttering angrily under his breath as he turned a corner that led to a souvenir shop and was gone.

Ivan _tsked_ and shook his head. "Still weak, I see."

Arthur was aghast and bit disgusted. "Russia that was… wrong." He had to admit that it was a bit too over the top, despite the fact that Alfred was always so increasingly haughty and annoying.

Ivan gave him a dangerous look disguised behind childish violet eyes. "What? I just told him what he needed to know. If he takes what I said into consideration, it will do him a lot of good."

Arthur was about to say something else, but figured that no matter what he said, he couldn't change Ivan's mind and he would just get pounded anyway if he tried. So, instead, he followed Alfred's trail into the small shop, seeking him out. He eventually found him, smashing snow globes and other collectibles in uncontained rage.

"America!" Arthur shouted at him, but Alfred just continued smashing his way through the shop. "America, please, stop this! You'll hurt yourself!" Arthur ducked to avoid an ornament flying at his head. _"Alfred!"_

Alfred immediately stopped, dropping the souvenir and turning around to face him. His face was red and blotchy and his eyes were bloodshot—it looked like he'd been crying or rather struggling not to. Arthur rolled his eyes and approached him, albeit cautiously, and drew him into an embrace. Alfred gave a soft, hiccupping sob as he buried his face in his brother's shoulder. "Childish git," Arthur muttered and patted him on the back. "Why is it always me who ends up tending to you?"

"It's not true," Alfred murmured after he'd calmed himself a bit. "It's not true—is it, Artie? I mean, I know I've done a lot of shitty things in my life, but—" He swallowed dryly at this. "But I've always made up for it in the end, right? I-I don't know what to think anymore, bro… being a hero is all I have."

Arthur felt sympathy well up in his chest. He knew it had taken a lot for Alfred to admit to that. "You're what you make yourself to be, Alfred. Haven't I always told you that?"

"I kinda thought you took that back after the Revolution began."

Arthur frowned. "But I _did_ tell you that, didn't I?"

"Yeah…"

"Then be who you _want_ to be, not what you think you _have_ to be. If you don't like what you've become, you can always change."

"So… have I done anything wrong?"

Arthur chuckled somberly. "Well, I think we all have something to account for regarding that. But everyone makes mistakes sometimes, Alfred. No one expects you to be perfect but you."

"But I _want_ to be perfect."

"No," Arthur corrected. "You want to be perfect because you think you have to be."

"But if I'm not the hero," Alfred said slowly, and a bit chokingly. "Then who am I?"

Arthur pulled away and looked him in the eyes. "Whoever you want to be, Alfred. Not whoever _America_ has to be, but what you, _Alfred_ , want to be. You fought for this, didn't you? This choice?" _Good Lord, I'm turning into a useless sap…_

Alfred seemed to brighten. "Oh, yeah, right…"

Arthur rolled his eyes and scoffed. "Whatever, just… try not to talk about this too much. I have my own reputation to keep up, you know. And I don't want to come across as a weak link."

"Okay," Alfred said, smiling weakly. "And Artie?"

"Yes, Alfred?"

"Thanks, bro."

"Don't mention it—really."

There was a ruckus outside, and both brothers turned to see Lovino loping around the corner. When he caught sight of them standing close together, Alfred still trying to compose himself, the Italian grimaced. "Pardon me, _lovebirds_ , but the Potato Bastard wanted me to inform you that someone is here to join us."

"Really, now?" Arthur blinked. "Who the hell could it be? Let me see… if it takes 9 hours to get from Italy to New York, then what country takes 10 hours other than Russia…?"

Lovino gave an impatient grunt. "I don't know, dammit! Just come out here!"

Arthur frowned, not looking forward to working with Lovino at all. _If I'm lucky, Lovino will be put into his place just like Alfred and stop harassing the crap out of everyone._

Alfred took the lead, and he was grateful; there would be nothing to allude to the fact that they had just shared a rather… _private_ moment in the shop, most of which was pretty much demolished. _Well, it's not like it matters now._

They rounded the corner, following Lovino as they walked to the center of the terminal where the rest of the group was gathered, even Matthew and the drunken Gilbert and Francis. Alfred and Arthur pushed their way through the crowd until they were staring, dumbfounded, at their next guest. Mostly, it was Arthur who was in shock.

There he was, proud in his hoodie and mask, the haughty and painfully irksome Turkey.

* * *

No translations

References:

1-Alludes to England's promises to India and various countries in Northern Africa and the Middle East who contributed troops to WWII on the promise that they would receive their self-governance in return. This promise was not followed through with and was one of the reasons for India's revolution and parting from the British Empire.

A Word From the Writer: Turkey! Wait a sec... he didn't have a chapter on his escape! I know. I decided to add him to make the group add up to an even number. You'll see why in later chapters.

And mean Russia is mean. But at least America got the kick in the ass he needed, huh?

Until next time~!


	12. Then There Were Ten

**It's the final countdown... XD  
**

Warning: Angst, an almost-fight, tension (whether or not it is sexual is up to you), derogatory comments from America to Russia and likewise, innuendo from, you guessed it, France.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

  
**Then There Were Ten**   


"Well," Naturally, Alfred was the first to speak. "You _are_ a persistent son of a bitch." He smiled.

"T-Turkey?" Arthur was absolutely gobsmacked. How the hell did someone so arrogant manage to survive? "How in the world did you…?"

Sadiq snorted, dropping his pack and rolling his eyes. "How do you think, British prick? I couldn't have _swum_ over here. And it's not like I wanted to…" His eyes wandered to Alfred when he said the last sentence. Ever since they had met, Alfred's and Sadiq's equally arrogant dispositions tended to constantly clash.

Arthur frowned, folding his arms. "If you want to act like an impertinent arse, you don't have to stay here, you know."

Lovino rolled his eyes, though he still looked pretty nervous in the Turkish man's proximity. "Isn't he always?"

Sadiq smirked and patted the pommel of his kilij. "Ah, but I believe you want something that I have, no?"

Arthur scowled, but had the mind not to shout at the idiot. He resigned himself to muttering angrily under his breath, "Disrespectful git…"

Sadiq then switched his gaze to Alfred. "I am persistent, Romano. You of all people should know that."

Lovino snorted, but remained silent, swallowing his unease.

Alfred scoffed, "Dude, you're so full of yourself."

"And _you're_ not?" Ivan cut in.

Alfred gave him an eat-shit glare. "Go fuck yourself, Russia. I'm through with you."

Francis then rushed forward out of nowhere, surprisingly balanced for being so drunk. He boldly latched onto Ivan's arm—something he would not have dared to do if he was sober. A leer parted his lips. "Ohonhonhonhon~but you don't have to do it by yourself, amour. I can help you, hic, if you wanted—"

Ivan gave Francis a disgusted look and shoved him roughly off of him. "Unhand me, бесполезны шлюха." Francis stumbled until he was caught unknowingly by Arthur, who rolled his eyes when Francis waggled his eyebrows at him. Ivan then directed his attention to Alfred. "You had better choose your words wisely, Amerika, lest I decide to do something about it."

Alfred growled, spreading his arms in a welcoming gesture. "Go right ahead, pal! I can take whatever you give me, as was proven multiple times in the past… and stop using your stupid commie accent when you say my name!"

"Only if you speak proper Russian when talking to me."

"What?! You're fuckin' crazy. I would _never_ stoop so low as to learn your commie lang—"

 _"GENTLEMEN!"_ They all stared at Arthur, and the man uncomfortably cleared his throat and adjusted his collar that had been mussed by Franis leaning on him. "We are all civilized human beings, no? This is _not_ how arguments should be settled."

Alfred scoffed. "Tell that to the guy whose whole army raped and killed millions of civilians."

Ivan was absolutely fuming. "You _dare_ insult me when you have done more terrible things? It's a shame, really, that you haven't the capacity to realize how badly this could end for you."

Alfred took a couple steps toward him and looked him straight in the eyes. "Bring it, bitch."

"What sort of alliance is this?" Arthur broke in again. "Look at us… only a few hours we've been together, and we're already going for each other's throats!"

"Not necessarily." Ivan said, not taking his eyes off his opponent who stood stiffly in front of him. "I was also planning to go for someplace else also."

It took a moment for Alfred to process what he was saying. Then he snarled, "Oh, that's just low enough for you to even consider!"

Sadiq blinked in interest as the two men growled at each other, fists clenched at their sides. "Wow, if I knew it was this much of a mess here, I would never have come."

Arthur shook his head, staring at him sternly. "This is not the best time to be throwing offensive comments around, Turkey."

Sadiq shrugged. "I can easily solve this problem." He whipped out his kilij and thrust it between the two quarreling men. "What sort of greeting is this? I get off my plane and immediately after have two men ready to exchange blows in front of me? Wasn't that what I was trying to escape from in the first place?"

Alfred and Ivan glared at him, but Sadiq arrogantly held his position, eyeing them also. Ivan eventually broke his gaze to stare at Alfred in disgust. "It does not have to be limited to blows. I could use my pipe as well."

Alfred snarled, "You'll never be able to hit me."

Ivan smirked. "Oh, da? What did you call that time during our little 'competition', hm? Did you not come over to my house to brag about me losing the Baltics and I nearly knocked you out cold?"

Alfred scoffed, "That was only because my gun jammed."

"And whose fault was that?" Ivan sneered.

"You distracted me!"

"So you are admitting you can't focus most of the time?"

"No!" Alfred continued, furious. "And I would have knocked your lights out if you hadn't pinned me up against the wall and—" Alfred's words seem to catch in his throat and he made a choking sound, eyes darting down to the floor, his face red. Ivan stared at him, looking strangely smug.

"Al," Matthew pushed his way toward his twin and threw an arm around him. "Why do you always do this to yourself? You always feel it's your obligation to instigate every fight within a group of people."

"Oh," Alfred grunted, eyes still staring downward. "So you blame me too?"

Matthew sighed and rolled his eyes. "Al, you know I don't. Please don't make me have to fight you to calm you down. It's damn annoying."

Alfred released a long breath and straightened, knowing his brother would not appreciate an argument when he was so tired. After all, Alfred had been the one who had woken him up from his naps now… twice. He gave him a rueful smile and mussed Matthew's hair—something Alfred knew he absolutely loathed, but he still did it anyway.

"Sure, bro. You're right. Maybe we all just need to rest."

Arthur stared open-mouthed at him. Since when had Alfred stopped in the middle of a fight for _any_ reason (a bit insulting to Arthur seeing as he tried to stop it earlier and shy, quiet Matthew ended up doing it)? But he wasn't going to let this opportunity escape him. "Right. To the chairs, the lot of you. Come on, get moving!"

There was little protest, though Arthur was sure everyone would have had something to say about his taking control if they hadn't been so exhausted. On his way to a chair spaced a safe distance from Francis and Ivan, he caught Alfred and the taller Russian exchange vicious glares.

Arthur sighed and sat in his chair, slumping with fatigue. "The end of the world comes and they _still_ don't stop fighting…"

Ludwig settled in his chair, Feliciano snuggling close beside him, which made him more than a little uncomfortable, especially since he was receiving death glares from Lovino who sat adjacent to his brother. Francis and Gilbert seemed to have stopped their little drinking party to welcome the temptation of sleep. The alcohol had muddled their depth perception, and as so, they had no choice but to sleep on the floor, propped up against the wall, slumping into each other. Sadiq found a place on the floor in a corner across the room, leaning his back against the wall and allowing is eyes to slip closed, only to be woken by every snore or shift he heard. Matthew managed to settle Alfred down with a few quiet words and convinced him to sleep with his back to everyone else, pulling two chairs together to form a makeshift bed. Matthew then watched his brother to make sure he wouldn't wander off while they were sleeping to try to murder Ivan and eventually settled into his own chair, falling asleep with his hand propping up his head. Ivan, meanwhile, sat brooding for a good ten minutes—a time in which Arthur didn't dare close his eyes—his purple aura disappearing and his constant string of ' _kolkolkol_ 's finally subsiding, the man becoming absolutely still, his back straight, his hands rested in his lap. If not for the loud snore that resonated from the Russian, Arthur would not have known he had fallen asleep.

He shivered. _Creepy…_ Arthur wondered how someone could possibly fall asleep sitting perfectly upright as if they were awake, but when he considered the fact that Ivan had Natalya constantly harassing him, he supposed Ivan just slept that way out of habit. _More like necessity._ He thought, drifting off to sleep himself, not caring if there was no one to keep watch. Surely Ivan or Sadiq would hear someone coming. As for him, he was too damn tired.

* * *

Translations:

бесполезны шлюха-worthless whore

A Word From the Writer: Pride is a cock-blocking little bitch. Then again, so is Turkey. Why you interrupt them Turkey? They could have _done something (sexual)_!

Nah, Turkey's cool. Everyone needed a break from the tension anyway.

*CoughbutyouoweussomeRusAmelater...cough*

Onward~!


	13. Then There Were Twelve

**The last two arrive. And yes, I mean it. THE LAST TWO.  
**

Warning: Angst, another almost-fight, tension, innuendo, and excessive swearing courtesy of Romano.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Then There Were Twelve**

Alfred opened one eye, looking around before he concluded everyone was asleep before swinging his legs over the armrests of the interlocked chairs and standing. He yawned and stretched, his hands extended over his head. It was then that he noticed Matthew, asleep in the chair beside him. He sighed, whispering, "Really, bro? You didn't trust me enough to know that I wouldn't wander off to totally murder Russia?" Her smirked at the idea. He had only been getting up to take a piss, but, hey, what was better than getting that bastard back? "Guess you were right, Mattie."

Slowly, and with great caution, Alfred tiptoed toward Ivan from behind. The closer he got to the other man, the slower he went, taking steps so lightly, Alfred was sure that even an elephant couldn't hear him… which was _exactly_ what Ivan was. He chuckled at his own jibe, finally stopping at the back of the chair, stiffening. Wait a goddamn second, was Ivan awake? No, he couldn't be. The man was snoring. But how the hell did he manage to remain upright? That was so freaky, man!

Alfred extended his hands, planning to wrap them around Ivan's neck. He wasn't going to choke him to death. Surely Ivan would wake up by then and throw him off, but still, it was a good way for Alfred to get back at him.

Just before his hands brushed Ivan's scarf—which was annoyingly wrapped around his neck, damn!—a cold hand shot up and wrapped around his wrist, large fingers tightening until Alfred gasped with the pain. Ivan remained stoic, though. "That would not be a wise decision, Amerika." Ivan muttered as venomously as if he had been awake the whole time.

Alfred fought the urge to shout in alarm. He tried to wrench his arm free, but Ivan's hand seemed to clamp even tighter. He squeaked—but it was a very _manly_ squeak!—as Ivan pulled his hand down, forcing Alfred's chin to rest on his shoulder. "You are asking for trouble~"

"More like demanding," Alfred replied. "When have you known me to _ask_ for anything from you?"

Ivan rolled his eyes, turning his head so that he faced Alfred. He shivered when the Russian's cold lips brushed against his ear. "I know you better than that, Amerika. You want me to attack you, nyet? To do what I did that time you made the mistake of coming to my house to brag? But you would like that, now, wouldn't you?"

It took a moment for Alfred to respond. "Bet you would a get a hell of a kick out of it, too."

Ivan's chuckle made a chill shoot up Alfred's spine. "You'd better hope I do."

For a few tense moments, they stay like that, Alfred leaning over Ivan, Ivan's hand still clamped around his wrist. "Uh… dude," Alfred began quiet uncomfortably. "You're kinda cutting off the circulation to my hand."

"Da?"

"And this is sorta… awkward."

"It is only awkward if you make it awkward, Amerika."

Alfred scoffed Ivan finally released his hand. He rubbed his wrist, which had a noticeable, purpling bruise.

"Now," Ivan began, changing the subject. "I believe I hear a helicopter landing outside."

"What?" Alfred raised his eyebrows skeptically. "I don't hear anything."

Ivan sighed. "You really are deaf."

Alfred scoffed and walked over to the window, peering out in shock. "W-what the hell?" Sure enough, a helicopter had just landed on the runway. "How the fuck do you _do_ that?"

Ivan shrugged. "Is easy. I listen well."

Alfred snorted. "Whatever. Freaky motherfuc—"

"I'd shut up if I were you." Ivan warned with a smile. "And check to see who it is that has arrived."

Alfred didn't want to admit defeat, but the two people approaching the stairs to the gate outside demanded his attention more… really, it did. "Uh… I can't really tell, but there are two of them and they look to be unarmed."

Ivan raised his eyebrows. "Strange. Do they look familiar?"

"Um… I-I can't really tell, man."

"Aren't you the one with the glasses?"

"They're not friggin' binoculars!"

Ivan rolled his eyes and rose from his chair, smiling when Alfred gave a nervous twitch. "Relax, comrade. I'm just taking a look myself."

Alfred stepped back to let Ivan look through the window. "Psh, I'm more than relaxed. And I'm not your 'comrade'."

"Very well, you're not." Ivan replied. "But it would be wise to be one." Before Alfred could comment, Ivan blinked in surprise. "It's Japan and Yao-Yao."

Alfred's jaw dropped. "W-w-what the hell?! How the _fuck_ can you see that?"

"I have good sight." _I can see Alaska from my house~_

Alfred shifted uncomfortably beside him. " _Yao-Yao_?"

Ivan shrugged. "I use it out of habit. And… is cute." Then with a short glance behind him, he ordered, "Wake the others. We haven't much time."

Alfred didn't like the demanding tone in Ivan's voice, but he would rather take the excuse to be away from him. He walked over to the closest person, Arthur, and put a hand on his shoulder, shaking him slightly.

"Bro, hey… it's time to wake up."

"Mmf, w-what is it?" Arthur glanced sleepily up at him before settling back in his original position, batting his little brother's hand away. "'S too early. Leave me alone."

"Trust me, dude, I would have slept all day if I could. But… Russia's orders."

Immediately, he unraveled himself from the chair and stood, straightening out his collar and jacket. He looked at Alfred with clear, alert eyes, which sort of disturbed him. "Well, mustn't keep the chap waiting now, eh?" Arthur gave a nervous laugh before eyeing him seriously. "What did you do to him before you woke me? Are you missing your left bollock or something of the sort?"

Alfred wrinkled his nose. "No, man! I didn't do anything to him." Then after a momentary pause, he asked, "And why is it the left ball that's always getting picked on? I mean, both of my balls are important to me. Though if I had to choose which one I'd rather lose, I wouldn't care. But then again, if my right ball was bigger than my left ball, well—"

Arthur blinked at him as if he were crazy and flicked his ear. Alfred recoiled, cradling his ear with one hand. "Ow! What the fuck, Artie? What was that for?"

"For being an insufferable moron. Now, come on, back to our current situation. What is Ivan goggling at?"

Alfred stopped holding his ear to rub it gingerly. "Ah, well, I couldn't really see, but Russia said it was China and Japan."

Arthur's large eyebrows rose. "Huh, is that so? Well, how curious. I never thought they would make it in time, being halfway round the world."

Alfred sympathized. "Yeah, musta been a long flight."

"Say, what time is it, Alfred?"

"I'm not the one with the watch."

"Oh, I forgot, you're never on time for anything." Before Alfred could retort, Arthur rolled up his sleeve and exclaimed, "Sweet Mother of Christ! It's 9:32! We have less than a half-hour to ready ourselves to meet the rebels!"

"Oh, shit! Really?"

"You git! Why didn't you wake me earlier?"

"I don't have a watch, remember?"

"Gah!"

"Would you two stop acting melodramatic?" Ivan turned away from the window to give them a stern look. "We have to bring Japan and Yao-Yao up to speed now, da? Wake the others."

Alfred found himself nodding against his will. No need to over-dramatize this situation more than it already was by starting something with Ivan… again. As much as he wanted to break the man's nose…

Arthur, meanwhile, gave him a curious look. "Yao-Yao?"

"Don't ask me."

Alfred went to wake Matthew first, ruffling his hair and immediately startling him into annoyed wakefulness. After telling him about China and Japan's arrival, Matthew bit back his remark and helped Alfred wake the others, telling them the same thing when they woke.

"Ve~" Feliciano was immediately awake, still too weak to stand, but smiling leastwise. "Japan and China are here! I missed them so much!"

Ludwig rolled his eyes. "You barely saw China before, Veneziano."

"Don't backsass my brother, Nazi boob!"

"Don't insult _my_ brother, totally unawesome tomato-eater!"

"You suck ass at insulting people, dumb bastard."

"I can't hear you over my awesomeness~!"

"Shut it, gits!" Arthur yelled over the melee. "And get your arses over here. We don't have much time!"

Sadiq scoffed. "Incompetent fools, acting like children at a time like this."

"Oh, please," Alfred snorted. "Don't tell me you wouldn't be the same way if Greece were here."

"N-no!" Sadiq said, slightly offended. "We settle our differences verbally…"

"Yeah, using insults and jibes."

"Al… please don't start this again."

"Shut up, Mattie. I'm in the middle of something."

"And _you_ have never used insults during fights? You can't deny that fight I saw between you and Russia a few hours ago. You're just as bad as me." Sadiq pulled Alfred back into the conversation.

Alfred's eyes flashed. "Oh, so you're admitting you have a problem, douchebag?"

" _What_ did you just call me, bitch?"

Francis loped in, obviously a little sore from the alcohol he drank a few hours ago and throwing his arms around the both of them. "We can all be friends, non? Like I always say, make love not war!"

"Stop molesting people, Frog."

"Nonsense, I was only giving innocent advice. Have something dirty on your mind, mon Angleterre?"

"Shut your fucking mouth, git."

"Oh, but if I do, I won't be able to use it properly~"

"France!" Ludwig shouted. "There are certain _innocents_ listening!"

"Ve~I want to be an innocent! Am I? Am I, Germany?"

"You'd better not be talking about me, Potato Bastard."

Gilbert scoffed. "Ja, because you've gotten laid so many times before with your charming personality. You could never match up to _my_ awesomeness!"

"I've gotten laid plenty of times, you fucking dumbass!"

"Care to elaborate for us, mon chéri?"

 _"Settle yourselves, comrades."_ It wasn't a shout, but it was scary enough for them all to shut up there and then. Ivan stared them all down with a feigned smile and eyes that smoldered with pent-up threats. "Japan and Yao-Yao are coming. Try to at least look like civilized human beings."

"Well, _most_ of us are." Alfred muttered, and when Ivan glared at him, he faked a loud cough, making Arthur grimace next to him.

There was a long stretch of silence, during which they all kept their eyes pinned on the gate they could hear a pair of footsteps approaching quickly. Then, two figures burst from the arch, both shouting and taking up defensive stances. Kiku unsheathed his katana, both hands on the hilt, his expression blank, but his eyes fierce. Yao held his wok with both hands over his right shoulder, his eyes narrowed, a snarl on his lips.

After a quick observation, Kiku lowered his sword, blinking in surprise. "Russia-san? America-san?"

"What hell is this?" Yao growled, shaking his wok at them, despite its weight. "How come you not call us, hm?"

"We couldn't possibly contact you with the world going to hell and all." Arthur replied flatly. "Nice to know you are glad to see us, China."

"I'm glad to see you, Yao-Yao." Russia smiled creepily. "You are glad to see me too, da?"

Yao shrunk away a little, now holding his wok in two hands again. "Sh-shì, Russia. It is always nice to see you…"

"Dude, Kiku!" Alfred rushed forward and gave the other man a hug. Kiku's eyes widened and his claustrophobia kicked in, prying Alfred anxiously off of him. But Alfred didn't mind. He knew it was just part of who Kiku was… no matter how painfully annoying it was in the bedroom. "I thought I'd never see you again, man! How're ya doing?"

"Uh, well…" Kiku didn't quite know what Alfred was asking. Was it possible that the other man had not read the atmosphere again? Surely not through this gigantic crisis. "I'm not particularly happy, if that's what you—"

"We had hell of time getting here, you know." Yao ranted, despite the fact that Ivan was way too close for comfort. "How in world did you guys get here anyway?"

"Same way as you." Alfred replied.

"Japaaaan~!" Feliciano launched himself at the other man, but Kiku quickly side-stepped him to avoid getting glomped. Feliciano stumbled a bit before smiling. "Japan, I missed you soooo much! I'm so glad to see you again!" He was about to say something more, when he suddenly sagged forward with a dry cough, exhaustion and weakness overwhelming him.

Lovino immediately caught his brother with his good arm, despite the massive effort it took for him to do so. "Don't get yourself so excited, damn idiot. You need to go sit down somewhere."

"Ve… but I want to talk to Japan some more…" Feliciano whined feebly.

Lovino gritted his teeth as his little brother wriggled in his hold, forcing him to contort his body and disrupt his injured arm. "Dammit, Feli! Keep still!"

"I will take him." Ludwig offered, but Lovino rounded on him, snapping, "Get your fucking, wurst-ridden hands away from me, bastard!"

"Don't be unawesome." Gilbert said, nodding to his brother so that Ludwig took Feliciano from Lovino while Gilbert took hold of Lovino. The older Italian was furious, thrashing about, his anger overriding his pain. "Dumb bastard! Let go of me, dammit!"

"Stop struggling, uh?" Gilbert said, securing Lovino's arms to the angry Italian's chest by wrapping his arms around him. "The incredibly awesome me will take care of you, kesesese!"

Lovino blushed at his close proximity and thrashed harder. " _Dammit_! I will kick you in your goddamn potatoes if you don't fucking _get off me_!"

Gilbert leered. "Is that a threat or a promise?"

The Prussian _oofed_ as he was promptly elbowed in the abdomen, forcing him to release Lovino. Immediately the younger man staggered, crying out in pain, clutching his wounded shoulder as fresh blood oozed out from the reopened gash. _"Fucking goddamn, motherfucking son of a bitch!"_

"Please don't curse, big brother!" Feliciano sniffed, tears forming at the corners of his eyes. Ludwig was at a loss of what to do, so he merely patted the younger Italian's head awkwardly.

Gilbert was still trying to catch his breath. "… damn little bitch. I was only trying to awesomely help you, dammit, you didn't have to jab me in the stomach."

"I couldn't give a flying fuck what you're feeling now!" Lovino growled through his teeth, balancing himself on a nearby wall. "Dammit, why did I have to haul Feliciano's fat ass up that ladder anyway? Fuck!"

"We'll get you some help soon, Romano." Arthur interjected, and Lovino gave him a seething look. "I'm sorry, lad, but our strategy requires more attention at the moment. I promise, we'll fix you up soon." Then he turned to Ivan before Lovino could say anything. "What do you suppose we should do?"

He didn't know why in the world he was asking Ivan of all people an important thing like this, but it was better than asking Kiku… he would probably just suggest they strap grenades to their backs and go in for the attack. And although it seemed very noble, it would go against their survival if they went kamikaze.

Ivan seemed a little too pleased for Arthur's liking that he was seeking advice from him. Since when had Arthur asked advice from anyone when planning for battle? "I suggest we gather our weapons and wait for their arrival. Then, before they can gather, we make our escape."

"To where, exactly?" Alfred asked venomously.

Ivan's smile spread wider, making everyone take a step back. "To whatever safe house is nearby."

"That doesn't leave us very many options, then." Alfred replied stiffly, taking out his handgun and clicking the safety off. "But I'll shoot down anyone who tries to kill us."

"That's reassuring," Arthur deadpanned.

"Hey!" Alfred rounded on him, pointing his gun at him, making Arthur flinch. "I'm a perfectly good shot! Remember, not a hundred years ago, I—"

"Don't aim the bloody thing at me, git!"

"I say we do a headcount." Ludwig suggested. "We need to know all we can about what's happened, so anyone who knows or has seen a country dead needs to fess up now."

The atmosphere became incredibly tense, but Alfred, once again, was completely oblivious to it. He instantly stepped into the center of the circle they formed and put away his gun… thankfully. "Alrighty, then. Russia, why don't you start?"

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: America is to asshole as asshole is to Russia. Really, they both are and they feed off of each other. There can only be one major asshole of the world, you decide!

*For the last line was tempted to write "China, I choose you!" but then realized it was a horrible cliché... not so horrible that it didn't deserve a mention, though* :D


	14. Death Count

**Find out who's alive and who's not-so-alive. Oh, and why Romano had been missing from the country when the Uprising happened. A drama-llama chapter, get ready, hurr  
**

Warning: Angst, several character deaths, drama, mention of rape and death by fire.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Death Count**

Alfred was looking at Ivan with a devious smirk on his face. Oh, he wanted to hear what Ivan had to say. That's why he put him on the spot. He wasn't cruel or anything, are you kidding… he was the hero!

But the bastard deserved it.

Ivan stared at him evenly before he began. "Da, I will begin." He made sure to keep his face blank as he continued, not wanting Alfred to get the reaction he wanted. "The Baltics had to go back to their own countries after visiting me purely for political reasons to settle the various issues rising there and so did my two sisters, so I was alone and rightly had my own problems to attend to. However, I could not contact any of them for months. Naturally, I was quite worried. I didn't want the Baltics or anyone else to think they were entirely out of my grasp, despite the discontinuance of the USSR." He smirked at Alfred while he said this, then went on, "Eventually I went looking for them. As you can imagine, I wasn't in the mood to look for Natalya at first—she gets angry when she's under stress. I made a short trip north and found out that the Baltics had been trying to help each other, but in the process had been found out by the rebels. They were then captured, being betrayed by a close government official, and were tortured before being beaten to death in succession and burned.

"After finding out what fate befell the Baltics, I hurried to find my sisters, and I found Katyusha first." His voice threatened to break at this point, but he was determined to remain stoic, so his hands, out of habit, went to finger the hem of his scarf to draw his attention off of the unnerving feeling of grief. "She… she had been raped and strangled, left out in the woods for the animals to feast upon. As for Natalya, I found her in a warehouse close to her home. The rebels must have been holding her hostage, though I don't have any idea how. They slit her throat like a pig. Blood was everywhere. It was clear she'd put up a hell of a fight before she died."

There was a long stretch of silence for a while, some expressing sympathy for the Russian, others not quite knowing what to do. The latter feeling encompassed Alfred at the moment, and he stared ashamedly at the floor. _Was I really intent on getting a rise out of Russia by basically asking him to describe how those close to him died?_ The feeling made him sick to his stomach… but he quickly reminded himself that this was the same man who had threatened to blow Alfred up a few decades ago and he sucked it up.

Ivan was now wringing his scarf so hard that he felt a couple of seams snap, and immediately let it hang loose around his neck again. He wasn't about to ruin the only thing he had left from Katyusha. "England, do you have anything to add?"

Arthur blinked in surprise at his sudden slip into the spotlight. At once he felt what seemed like thousands of eyes intently watching him. His arm itched anxiously. "Uh… I lost communications with the Nordics, but I didn't really hear from them. Only that Sweden and Finland had died together, as was expected." He winced inwardly. _That sounded a bit cold. Why do I sound like I'm presenting a report?_ He loosened himself up and continued, "Sealand is gone. I don't know what happened to him, but somehow the Uprising reached him, poor lad. Possibly trying to help Sweden and Finland, but…" He trailed off.

A moment passed before Alfred asked hesitantly, "And… what about your family? Did they live?"

Arthur's heart immediately began to pound and a familiar stabbing pressure formed in his chest. He hadn't wanted to admit that he'd failed in saving them. _Alfred, you git._ "They… Wales went first. The Ireland's were second. I don't want to go into detail about their deaths, but it was rather… inhumane. Scotland was the only one with me when we tried to—" His throat became scratchy at this point, and his eyes clouded with tears, but he refused to let them fall. He wouldn't let his bastard of an older brother see him cry over him. His bastard brother who he loved so very much and hadn't had a chance to tell him that. "We tried to board the helicopter here, but the rebels caught us by surprise. They… they shot him before we could escape. Christ, there was so much blood… and we were so close. I almost saved him, but I couldn't…" His voice trailed off, unable to form words. He still had not cried, though, and his pride was still intact… most of it.

"I'm sorry, Artie."

"Shut up, Alfred." Arthur snapped, feeling guilty afterwards. He was afraid that if anyone tried to comfort him now, he would break down completely. To his utter relief, though, Alfred seemed to read the atmosphere… for once in his life.

Ivan directed his gaze to Francis. "France, what do you know?"

Francis hesitated, having to pry his worried eyes away from Arthur and process his thoughts. "Euh… The only ones I managed to keep in contact with were Monaco and Luxembourg. Then the communications went down, but we still could contact each other using telegraphs. When I didn't hear from them, though, I went to investigate. Monaco had been… assaulted and killed, left in the street for anyone to mutilate her precious body. As for Luxembourg… I came too late. They were b-burning him at the stake when I arrived. He was nothing but ashes when they were through." He hung his head afterward, wiping tears from his face.

Ivan's face was blank, but he felt a twinge of empathy for the other man—despite him being a pervert. "America, have you heard from your states?"

Alfred blinked in surprise at the sudden question and scrunched his nose up in thought. "Nope, can't say I have. The last one I talked to was Virginia, and that was when she arranged a flight for me here a couple days ago bound for Guam. As for everyone else… I can't seem to locate any of them. Not even New York."

Arthur flinched at the mention of Virginia, his former commonwealth. He had always wondered what she looked like now. He hadn't seen her for centuries. He sincerely hoped she was okay.

"Yao-Yao?"

Yao winced at his nickname before saying sadly, "Vietnam, Taiwan, South Korea, Thailand and Hong Kong are all dead. Hong Kong was shot when we were swimming to the shores of Japan. It was too late, and I couldn't… there was nothing I could do…"

"South Korea died while bravely defending me." Kiku cut in, drawing attention away from the currently choked-up Yao. "We will miss them all."

"Turkey?"

Sadiq tried to come off as nonchalant, but failed miserably. "The Balkans are gone—completely wiped out. The last one I had communications with was Greece. He was begging me for help, but then the line was cut." His gaze fell to the floor. "I wish I had the chance to." he muttered under his breath.

"Germany?"

Gilbert folded his arms and muttered, "Why does West get all the attention and I don't?"

Ludwig ignored him and said with professionalism, "Austria and Hungary paired together to help each other, but they were overwhelmed. The last I heard, they were being held captive and tortured, though I'm sure they're dead by now. Holland and Belgium have fallen also. And Veneziano told me that Switzerland and Liechtenstein were trapped. They have more than likely perished." Feliciano burst into tears in Ludwig's arms, clinging to him and crying into his shirt. Ludwig sighed in exasperation.

"Romano?"

Lovino looked up at Ivan in surprise, shocked that he had been called upon. Then again, he wasn't nearly as innocent and naïve as his younger brother. He braced himself against the wall before saying, "I haven't heard from Spain since a few months ago."

All of them remained quiet, expecting Lovino to continue, but he did not. Ivan raised skeptical silver eyebrows. "I believe you are keeping something from us, comrade."

Lovino's face turned red with rage. "How dare you accuse me of false accounts?! How come you didn't question the others' stories, uh? Why me?"

"Because during the Cold War, I was an interrogator, and I know when someone is lying."

Lovino looked incredulously at him.

Ivan turned to Alfred. "What do you think, Amerika? You've had enough practice to know when someone is not telling the truth. Is he?"

It took a moment for Alfred to get over his initial surprise that Ivan had called upon him for anything that didn't involve jibes or insults. "Yeah… he's not telling us everything."

They all stared at Lovino then… a million curious stares that he wanted nothing more than to curse at. Call him a liar? Ha! He was no liar… most of the time, anyway.

"Y-you didn't answer when I called your house."

Lovino rounded on Feliciano, flabbergasted at the betrayal. Feliciano went on under his older brother's seething gaze, more tears running down his cheeks as he did. "I-I called your house… I called so many times, Lovi, and you didn't answer. Not once. I even called your boss, your colleagues… why didn't you answer, Lovino? Where were you? I was so scared!"

"The coward probably ran away." Sadiq snorted.

Lovino growled. "I did not run away, you bastard! I came back for Feliciano. If I ran away, why would I come back, uh?"

"Is true," Ivan drawled, his violet eyes seeming to bore into his flesh. "What happened when Veneziano called? How come you cared enough to come and save him, but not enough to answer his calls?"

"Seems pretty shady to me." Alfred muttered, realizing with horror that he had just agreed with Ivan. And it didn't seem to slip by the Russian.

All those eyes staring at him… Lovino wanted to punch them all, wanted to rip his hair out, would rather die than tell the truth, but he had no choice. They wouldn't let him slide by. Finally, he sighed and walked slowly over to a row of chairs, seating himself in one of them, slumping over wearily. "I will tell you—but you'd better not give me any shit about this later, got it?"

It took a moment for them all to nod. Lovino noticed, with avid disgust, that neither Gilbert nor Sadiq had complied. _Damn stupid bastards…_ "I… I was over at Spain's house before the Uprising started."

There was a series of curious mutters that irked Lovino to no end, and then Ivan quieted them with a wave of his hand. "Why were you not in your own country at the time?"

"Well… I was just visiting and then all of a sudden all this shit broke out and I couldn't get back home! What else do you want me to say, uh?"

Alfred raised a skeptical eyebrow and glanced at Ivan, knowing from his look that he too knew that Lovino was still lying. The Russian's gaze was pretty creepy and made his skin crawl.

"You are hiding something from us still, da?" Ivan asked, making Lovino frown.

"I don't know what you're talking about… I've told you everything, dammit!"

"Nyet, you haven't. Speak the truth or I shall use a more… _creative_ form of interrogation." Ivan smiled innocently.

Lovino's face paled and his limbs trembled. His whole body tensed, causing his shoulder wound to complain repeatedly. His eyes fell to the floor, trying to find his words. Should he tell them? No, no… he would never admit—

"Romano," Ivan asked. "What is your relation to Spain?"

That made Lovino's head snap up. His gaze was smoldering, but his hands still quivered with anxiety. "What do you mean by that, bastard? He is my dumbassed older brother!"

"Nyet, Romano, your _current_ relation."

A lump formed in Lovino's throat and he bowed his head. He gathered his strength and the remainder of his pride. Well, there was no way around this now. The stupid, frost-bitten son of a bitch had found him out! He took a deep breath and mustered the fiercest, most menacing glare he could and said, "We were lovers, okay!"

Gilbert and Sadiq, being the arrogant assholes that they were, sniggered at the admission. Feliciano's eyes widened and he sniffed, muttering an excited "Ve~really, Lovi?" while Ludwig stared on in shock. Arthur was completely gobsmacked, while at the same time he tried to restrain himself from clobbering Francis, who was currently crooning various romanticisms. Alfred and Matthew eyed each other, blinking in surprise. How Lovino ever managed to have a relationship, Alfred didn't know. _Spain must be one patient guy…_ And throughout this whole, humiliating ordeal, Lovino sat stock still, staring at them all viciously, perfectly aware that his face had turned a bright shade of tomato-red.

Ivan quieted them down again. "You spoke of him in the past tense. Why?"

Silence.

"You must tell us everything, Romano. We need to know who we have left."

Lovino tried to keep himself together as he began his explanation, "I was visiting Spain before the Uprising. We barely had any time together, so we normally met then. But the fucking rebels had to choose to make their moves then, and I couldn't get back home. One day, I got worried about Feli, and I wanted to see if he was still alive. I felt guilty that I wasn't there to help him, so I asked Antonio if we could fly there. He agreed, but when we tried to annex one of the rebel's planes—since we were trapped in a government building—they found us and started shooting. The damn pilot flew off like a coward and left us stranded. The rebels chased us away from the building and into the woods where they eventually caught up with us.

"Then Antonio said-said he," At this point, Lovino's voice was faltering, and tears were pulling at his eyes. "He said for me to get to Feliciano, that he would hold them back. I told him that he was a stupid bastard, and that I wouldn't leave him. But he said that I needed to look for Feli, and that if I cared about my brother, I would leave. I had only seconds to make a choice… a few fucking seconds, and I chose Feli. I ran while Antonio shot at them, and then I heard a shout… it was such a horrible fucking shout…" Lovino let a few tears slip, angry at himself for having to explain his weaknesses and private life, and he scrubbed them grudgingly away. "I turned around and I saw him lying on the ground. There was so much blood." After a momentary pause, he collected himself and sniffed, "Well, he took a bullet to the head, so he didn't suffer. I just wish I wouldn't have been such a cowardly dumbass and done something… dammit, I could have _done_ fucking _something_! _Dammit_!" He slammed his fist onto the armrest of the chair, holding in sobs.

"Lovino!" Feliciano squirmed in Ludwig's arms until the German was forced to release him. Feliciano parked himself in the seat beside his brother and wrapped his arms around him, tears rolling down his face. "I'm so sorry, Lovi, I wouldn't have been such a dick to you if I would have known!"

"Get off of me, dumbass!" Lovino tried to pry his brother off of him to no avail. " _I_ should be the one having a break down, dammit."

Francis and Gilbert exchanged solemn glances, and they knew what the other was thinking. They had not heard from Toni either, and somehow they knew… they knew that he was gone. It was heartbreaking, but there was no time for that. So they just stood there, staring at the crying brothers and trying to hold back their own tears for their dead friend.

"Dude, I thought you totally hated Spain." Alfred burst out, not reading the atmosphere… again. "Actually, I thought you hated everyone."

"I do, bastard!" Lovino shouted, nails digging into the armrest in annoyance. "Just not Toni, Feli, or women. And I thought I told you not to give me any shit about this!"

"We won't," Arthur broke in, eyeing Alfred in warning. "And we are all sincerely sorry for your loss. But we can't stand around here discussing it. If most of you've forgotten, we are _minutes_ away from being pumped full of lead!"

"He's right," Ludwig said, pulling his pistol and cocked it, looking at his watch. " _Scheiße_! We have less than ten minutes to prepare. I suggest we—"

"Wave a white flag!" Feliciano exclaimed, pulling one out of his uniform. "I have one, see? Maybe they will let us go! Wave it!"

"Damn idiot," Lovino growled from his place seated in a chair. "That won't work!" Then under his breath he muttered, "Trust me, I've tried."

"Calm down, everybody, calm down." Ivan shouted above the yammering, frightening rather than soothing the group. " _I_ suggest we all rush out as a group shooting. It is risky, but it's worth a shot, da?"

They all stared at him in shock.

"Ah, fuck it! We're screwed!" Lovino groaned.

There was stretch of tense silence, in which three minutes ticked by.

Then, Alfred said somewhat hesitantly, "… I can fly us…"

"You can _what_?" Arthur looked incredulously at him.

"I said I can fly us." Alfred repeated, looking a bit nervous.

Arthur glared at him before punching him in the arm and yelling, "Why didn't you fucking tell us earlier, you bloody git?! Did it not occur to you that if another five minutes had passed by without you saying anything we all might have died?"

"Ow, man," Alfred recoiled, pouting. "I-I didn't wanna! I mean… I haven't flown since double W double I. At least not excessively. It had only been on special occasions before the shit hit the fan. "

"You still have flown before, oui?" Francis said, now recovered from his hangover.

"Well, yeah, but…" Alfred began to tug nervously at his leather gloves. "Uh… heheh, sorry?"

"You will be," Arthur growled. "if you don't get your arse moving!"

"Okay, okay!" Alfred thought for a moment, then said, "All right, I've got a plan. I'll fly. Let's take the plane Mr. Roberts was prepping for us. That'll save us some time."

"Mr. Roberts?" Sadiq wrinkled his nose.

"We'll explain later." Arthur assured, quickly throwing his bag over his shoulder and following Alfred.

"I hope he fucking knows what he's doing." Lovino groaned, rising slowly from the chair. Gilbert strode over and slung one of his arms over his shoulder, making the Italian redden and snap, "I don't need your fucking help, dammit!"

"Let the awesome me help you." Gilbert replied with a smirk. "You have no room to resist, kesesese~"

"Al!" Matthew called, gathering his things and bolting toward Gate 3. "Al, please don't get impulsive. If you can't do this, you can't. I don't want us all dying because of your stupid decision."

Alfred scoffed, "Why do you always think I don't think before I act?" Matthew gave him an accusing stare. "I thought you were supposed to trust me, bro? I promise I'll get us outta here. I'm the hero, after all!"

Ivan rolled his eyes and started toward the gate also. "I believe my plan would have yielded a much better result."

"I would rather _try_ to escape than run out on that suicide mission." Yao muttered under his breath, squeaking when Ivan threw him a what-was-that-bitch? smile.

"Are you sure America-san will be able to get us out of here?" Kiku asked, a bit worried.

"Ve~! America will save us! America, take my flag, you might need it~"

"Stop that, Veneziano." Ludwig snapped, making the young Italian pout. Ludwig sighed and muttered, "Stupid child…"

They all poured into the gate, boarding the plane with lightning speed.

Arthur glanced at his watch, his heart skipping a beat. "Three minutes,"

"Verdammt!" Ludwig cursed, struggling to strap Feliciano into his seat. "Erg… Veneziano, please sit still…"

"I can help with that, chéri~"

"Stop creeping, Frog! Now's not the time!"

"Lemme see, uh…" Alfred examined the control board. "Now, what was I supposed to do before takeoff?"

Arthur's patience was wearing thin. "Ignore that, git! There is no one to communicate with, we don't know where we're going, and Mr. Roberts most likely checked the fuel levels and tire wear!"

"Hey!" Alfred turned to Arthur who was standing behind him, arms crossed in the cockpit. "You seem to know a lot about this."

"Well," Arthur looked a bit apprehensive. "I flew with the RAF, and I have piloted a jet before. But that was only a few times very long ago. The jet thing was for the queen."

"C'mon, Artie," Alfred begged, his lower lip jutting out. "Pwease be my co-pilot."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "That won't get me to do anything, git."

Alfred rounded his eyes. "Pweeeaaaasse?"

Arthur stared at him for a moment longer before plopping down in the seat beside him and sighing. "All right, I'll be your co-pilot. Just try not to be too annoying."

He winced as Alfred let out a loud whoop and placed his hands on the control yoke. "Okay, now let's get this baby moving."

"You should probably start the engine first."

"Oh, yeah, right," Alfred flipped the switch and the plane began to vibrate as it came to life.

Arthur put a hand over his face. "Ugh… Lord help us."

"That would be useful." Alfred smiled, not amusing Arthur in the least.

A gunshot sounded a distance away, barely comprehensible over the sound of the plane engine. Ludwig came rushing in, throwing open the door and saying, "Get a move on! They have started invading the terminal!"

"Gotcha," Alfred nodded, his palms slippery with sweat and his heart pounding. Sure, he had total confidence in his abilities but… what if he was mistaken and they all went down because of him? That would definitely not do wonders for his reputation. He took a deep breath and began to move the plane forward slowly, so slowly in fact that Arthur had to remind him more than once that they didn't have enough runway to be so snail-like with their speed.

"I know, I know! Jeez…" Alfred snapped, making Arthur want to slap him, but he refrained. After all, if the plane went down, it wasn't going to be Arthur's fault in any way and he wanted to keep it that way.

Gradually, the plane began to speed up. Alfred could hear anxious shouts behind him, something along the lines of the rebels racing vehicles up the runway. Alfred didn't dare take his eyes off the runway, but Arthur did.

"They won't make it in time." Arthur assured him, but looked pale nonetheless. "Just… make sure we make the takeoff, okay, Alfred?"

"'M tryin', Igs." Damn, why did his skills have to be so goddamn rusty? It wouldn't have killed him to have a little practice every once in a while…

By now, they were going fast down the runway, and Alfred could clearly see, with resigned terror, that the pavement was running out rather quickly.

"Alfred…" Arthur warned, his fingers digging into the armrests on his seat. "Alfred, I believe you're supposed to start lifting the nose of the plane now."

"Oh, right," Alfred did so, albiet jerkily, and he was glad that he had Arthur there to guide him through the procedures… no matter how humiliating it was to have some grouchy, arrogant British guy telling you what to do. Well, as long as the others didn't see this…

"Lift it a tad more… there." Arthur's heart was in his throat, his eyes pinned on Alfred's hands and every movement they made on the yoke. "You're doing fine, just remember to keep lifting it steadily until you reach the end of the runway. If you've done it correctly, the whole plane will be airborne." The Briton's voice wavered a bit, and he squeaked when Alfred's hand twitched on the wheel, making the whole plane tilt to one side.

"Dude, seriously, stop whimpering. You're making me nervous."

"And _I_ don't have the right to be nervous?"

"No… huh," Alfred nodded to the window. "We've run out of pavement."

Arthur's eyes widened and he waited for the sound of metal crunching and a slow, fiery death, reciting the Lord's Prayer mixed in with _Dumbarse yank, dumbarse yank, Alfred, you dumbarse, I can't believe a dumbarse has killed me,_ over and over in his head. But nothing happened.

He gave an elated laugh that sounded a bit too joyous than he had wanted it. "You did it, Alfred! You didn't kill us!"

"I know," Alfred smiled triumphantly. "You know, I remember you praising me like 'You did it Alfred! You tied your shoelace!' or 'You did it, Alfred! You shot your first pigeon!' but I don't recall ever hearing you congratulate me for not killing you before. That's a first."

"And be sure I won't have to say it again." Arthur said flatly, peering out the window. "So… do you have any idea where we are going?"

"To infinity and beyond?"

"Don't make me have to regret letting you take the yoke."

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Nuu, Spain! Why did you have to leave? You and Romano were the only OTC in this fic... for now anyway. Unless America crashes the plane that is.

And yes, that was a hint.


	15. Not-So-First in Flight

**I'm surprised I would actually WANT to be on this flight.  
**

Warning: Angst, swearing, innuendo, threats.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Not-So-First in Flight**

"So, about the bets!" Francis burst into the cockpit, smiling widely.

Arthur spun around, fuming. "Don't go around shouting and throwing open doors!" Then in a lower, but still stern voice, he added, "Alfred might get distracted."

"Oh," Francis hadn't thought about that before, and for once—though he'd never openly admit it—he was actually grateful for the Brit's warning. He walked over, leaning on the back of Arthur's chair, much to the Englishman's displeasure. "I was just thinking about those bets we made… and as I recall, you were wrong!"

Arthur swiveled around in his chair, making Francis stumble awkwardly, snapping, "I wasn't the only one wrong, Frog!"

"Yeah, dude, I mean, honestly, you can't take all the credit." Alfred said, glancing back from the wheel.

Arthur pointed a threatening finger at him. "You. Keep your eyes on the sky."

Alfred pouted, but did as he was asked, to Arthur's utter relief.

"So," Francis began. "How do we do this?"

"Well, let's go by who we said would not show up." Arthur suggested.

"I'm all for it." Alfred interjected.

"You be quiet and I'll sort out the bets. Focus."

"Gotcha, Art. Jeez, so friggin' pushy…"

Arthur ignored the muttered insult, and began, "Okay, so I said Turkey wouldn't show up. And France said that the Italies wouldn't make it. And Alfred said that Russia didn't make it, of course…" He pondered for a bit before concluding, "All right. I said Turkey and Turkey showed up, so Francis gets my compass, I'm pained to say…"

"Hold on a sec," Alfred said. "I guessed that Turkey _would_ be here. Why don't I win?"

"Because you said Russia wouldn't be here, which makes me the recipient of your… whatever-you-call-it."

"It's a dream-catcher, moron." Alfred scoffed, and Arthur glared. "And I still don't get this."

"Of course you don't."

"Hey! What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't get this either, ami. Would you care to elaborate for us?"

Arthur sighed. "Okay… both France and I guessed Russia would be here and Alfred didn't, so technically, we would both be winners… that is, if Alfred hadn't said Turkey would be here, thus proving my bet false."

Francis wrinkled his nose in confusion. "But I also said Turkey was going to be here, cher. Have you gone deaf?"

"No, you git!" Arthur snapped. "Don't interrupt. As I was saying, Alfred guessed Turkey would be here and proved me wrong when he showed up. France would have won also, if he hadn't said that the Italies would be here. Now, I know both of you said the Italies would be here, but I said the Italies would be here, and so did Alfred. His guess would have counted if he had said that Russia would have showed up also, thus copying my claim. As so, and if my calculations are correct, Alfred lost to me, I lost to… ugh, _the Frog_ , and France lost to Alfred."

Francis and Alfred were both silent, trying to contemplate what the man had just said. Eventually they came to the unspoken conclusion that it was too damn complicated to figure out, and that if Arthur admitted that he lost to Francis—which he would never do under any normal circumstances—he was probably telling the truth.

"Oui, so congratulations, ami, you won." He fished the small sack of aphrodisiac out of his pocket and gave it to Alfred, the few moments he took his hands off the wheel to grab it making the plane tip slightly to one side. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?"

Francis _tsked_ with a leering grin on his face. "No, amour, it is _who_ you are going to do."

"Shut it, Frog, and here." Arthur grudgingly tossed his prized compass over to Francis, who examined it closely.

"Uh, mon cher," Francis tapped lightly at the glass pane. "Are you sure this isn't… broken?"

Arthur looked extremely offended. "Of course not, bloody prat! Why else would I give it to you?"

Francis gave him a skeptical look, but said nothing. He was just glad to finally have something of Arthur's to keep with him, to hold, to look at, to marvel over, to… do other _things_ with.

Arthur looked at Alfred, hand out and gesturing. "All right. I do believe you owe me that drear-retcher or whatever the hell it is."

" _Dream-catcher_ ," Alfred enunciated, taking his hands off the wheel for a moment to search in his many pockets. Finally, he located the trinket, giving it to Arthur gently, as if it would snap if he so much as moved too quickly.

Arthur snatched it out of his hand, enjoying the outraged look on Alfred's face as he mulled it over curiously. "I think I've heard of these, but I didn't pay any mind to them…"

"Well," Alfred said seriously. "Do well to pay mind to this one. It's very special and very old. 'S not like some of those other fake models out there that they sell in souvenir shops. I got it in the early years of the Cold War and it was blessed by a real shaman."

"You believe in this stuff?" Arthur asked in surprise.

Alfred scoffed. "What, and now all of a sudden _I'm_ strange for believing in the supernatural? Dude, how many 'friends' have you got again?"

Arthur growled, "I've told you time and time again, brat, that my friends are 100 percent real! I should know. I talk to them all the time."

Alfred and Francis exchanged worried looks. "Whatever you say, dude." Then Alfred added as an afterthought, laughing, "Just as long as you tell me what kind of drugs you use to see your 'friends', 'cause I can sure as hell use a fix right now."

"I'm not lying impudent brat!" Arthur snapped. "And you will not be getting smashed when you're flying an airplane!"

"Chill, bro, sheesh." Alfred said, pocketing the aphrodisiac with a sigh. "You know what I just thought of? Where are we going to land?"

Francis and Arthur eyed each other in question. Then Arthur said, "Well… I don't know."

"Is there possibly a place that does not have many people?" Francis asked. "The less people there are around us, the safer we will be."

Arthur blinked. "You've got a point there, Frog." When Francis leered at him, he said, "Don't let it go to your head!" When Francis continued to leer, Arthur blushed and snapped, "Your _other_ head, insufferable pervert!"

"Well…" Alfred took a moment to think. "Montana has Yellowstone National Park. There are many predators living there, granted, but no one in their right mind would think to go in there. And I believe we have enough protection to ward off anything that might confront us."

"Sounds like a good idea." Arthur agreed, rising from his seat. "I should go inform the others of the plan, yes?"

"Artie," Alfred said. "Please bring them up to speed with Mr. Roberts and everything. I feel his memory shouldn't be forgotten. He helped us a lot and…"

"I understand," Arthur stopped him, turning around to snag Francis by the shirt. "And _you_ , Frog, won't be staying in here to distract Alfred from his work. Into the cabin with you."

Francis leered as he was pushed ahead of Arthur. "Oh là là, mon cher, getting a little rough, are we?" He waggled his eyebrows seductively.

Arthur rolled his eyes and gave Francis a massive shove to the back that made the other man stumble through the door of the cockpit. "Yeah, yeah, shut up and move."

"That's what she sa—Oof!"

Alfred chuckled to himself as he heard Arthur hit Francis with the door.

In the cabin, everyone was getting anxious. Feliciano had finally been strapped into his seat and Ludwig was sitting on his right side, shielding him from Ivan's impatient glares as he sat in the seat across the aisle. Lovino was sitting with his arms crossed in the seat in front of Feliciano, brooding as Gilbert sat beside him, talking about how awesome he was. Kiku sat next to Yao a row over, staring out of the window, while Yao muttered irately under his breath as Sadiq crunched annoyingly through multiple packages of sweet and salty peanuts he had found in the back. And, as always, Matthew was seated in the midst of them all, being utterly ignored.

Francis stumbled through the door followed quickly by Arthur.

"Honhon, you can push me around anytime, amour~"

"Sit down before I punch your lights out, Frog!"

"Mm, go ahead, I find I'm _much_ more creative when I'm asleep."

Arthur's face reddened a bit and he sighed, rolling his eyes as he turned to address the others. "Since being in any area where there is a large population would be extremely risky, we have decided to land in a secluded place in Montana."

Ivan's eyes immediately narrowed. "I do not like this idea."

"Why?" Arthur snapped back, too busy glaring at Francis to notice the dangerous look Ivan was giving him. "Because it doesn't involve some gutsy maneuver that might kill us all?"

"Nyet," Ivan growled, and this time Arthur minded enough to direct his full attention to the Russian and take a wary step back. "There are too many ways this could go wrong. I'm sure there are a scarce amount of people living in the forests there, but the animals have seen no reason to abandon their homes. We could be even more at risk out in the wild away from an easy supply of food, water, and shelter than we may be in a city or town."

"Not only that, but if something bad happens, who will know where to find us, eh?" Gilbert took a moment to cease talking about himself and mutter, extending a fearful look to Ivan and then back to Arthur.

Ivan made a rumbling noise deep in the back of his throat akin to the growl of a bear. He swiveled in his seat to look through narrowed eyes at Gilbert and snapped, "If you keep implying who may _make_ these bad things happen, I'm certain that they will be more inclined to come for you first."

The Prussian let out a soft squeak and shrank back into his seat. Beside him, Lovino looked relieved by the fact that he no longer had to listen to Gilbert's constant pratter.

"Hey!" Sadiq chimed, still crunching. "Don't be so negative! I know how to survive like a boss in the wild. You'll be safe with me."

"Oh, please," Yao spoke up. "I am much better survivor in wild. I am oldest nation, you know. Experienced."

Sadiq suddenly straightened up and tensed his muscles. "Are you saying you're better than me?"

"Of course,"

"I guess it's a competition, then." Sadiq sniffed, crossing his arms and giving Yao a narrowed look. "But I doubt you can beat me."

"This is no time to quarrel amongst ourselves!" Arthur snapped before Yao could remark. "It's already been decided. And, in all honesty, I believe we've all had enough with crowded cities. Why not try this out and see if it works? No one says we have to stay there for months on end. We have a plane."

Everyone looked at each other, muttering and nodding in approval. Ivan, however, glared at the Briton. "I agree. But next time, we go by majority vote."

From the open cockpit door, Alfred's annoying laugh could be heard. "Go by majority vote, my ass, commie bastard."

Ivan sat back in his seat, looking unusually calm. However the creepy, childlike smile was on his face and his ominous purple aura was starting up. "I would not be saying such things, Amerika. I am no longer communist, as you know. And you don't want an enemy like me."

Alfred scoffed, the plane tilting slightly to one side as he turned around to address the Russian. "Ha! Like you could threaten me. I was already your enemy, moron, and if you didn't know I totally kicked your commie ass!"

Everyone shrank back as a string of _kolkolkol_ 's erupted darkly from Ivan. Though Ivan still retained his childlike appearance, his fingers were now puncturing the arm cushions of the seat.

"Uh, Alfred," Arthur said warily. "I-I don't think you should say anymore."

"Hahahaha!" Alfred laughed. "Whatdaya mean, bro? He can't touch me! Let him try and—"

Before Alfred could further piss Ivan off, Arthur quickly slammed the door to the cockpit shut. He waited for Ivan to settle down before continuing, "Ahem, right, so… we're over Ohio at the moment, I believe. We should be crossing the lakes here soon so as to avoid detection from as many people as possible. We'll be touching down in Montana in about six hours, but we'll have to stop for fuel first." When the plane tilted again, Arthur braced himself against the wall and put a hand over his face. "Oh God help us."

"We'll see," said Matthew, and of course, no one heard.

Arthur went on as if no one had spoken. "Right, so America wanted me to bring you up to speed on what all conspired before you lot showed up…"

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Definitely DO NOT want to be trapped miles in the air with Russia. Especially with America there to annoy the hell out of him. Who knows what else he's got hidden in that coat?

Things are picking up. And everyone knows planes can't keep going forever...


	16. All For One and One For... Pasta?

**Only two ways this thing can work out: The Justice League or Team Rocket.  
**

Warning: Angst, weapons, threats, swearing, scary Russia, threats, blah, blah, blah.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**All For One, and One For… Pasta?**

"Damn!"

Everyone's heads turned to look at the cockpit door which hung ajar. The shout had been Arthur's, and the man came rushing out into the cabin a moment later, his eyes narrowed with annoyance.

"We're running out of fuel." he said grudgingly, as if it was the plane's fault its fuel tank wasn't unusually large. "We'll have to land soon." _I still don't like the idea of landing here. Too many people… if only there was a small, isolated airport nearby!_

A few seconds passed before Ludwig asked, "Where?"

Arthur sighed deeply before dropping down in a seat nearby. He ran a hand through his mussed hair and replied, "Milwaukee," He uttered the name like a death sentence.

Ivan raised a confused eyebrow. "What is so bad about this place?"

Arthur stood sharply and turned, struggling to keep a 'you idiot!' out of his response. "It's the capital of Wisconsin! Do you know how many people will be there?"

"Ve~!" Feliciano said. "Maybe they will see my white flag and not hurt us!"

"I doubt that, idiot." Lovino mumbled.

"I say we land elsewhere." Yao suggested. "Perhaps somewhere near it?"

"No," Arthur said, exasperated. "The fuel tank wasn't completely full when we took off. I don't know why, but it wasn't. We need to land in the closest city that has sufficient amounts of fuel. And that is Milwaukee."

"Have you spotted people so far?" Kiku asked, fingering the hilt of his katana.

Arthur sighed. "Not really, no. Which leads us to believe that whatever people there are left in this area may have migrated into the city to seek food and supplies."

"How are we going to land without anyone noticing, then?" Sadiq asked, tossing his finished bag of peanuts onto the floor and picking his teeth.

Arthur huffed. "That's the point. There's no way they _won't_ notice us. And they will surely mob the plane if it's the only transportation out."

"Then don't land there!" Lovino hissed, his voice strong but his hands trembling. "Just land outside the city and a group of us will drive the fuel trucks there."

"I'm assuming you won't be part of that group, ami?" Francis asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Shut up, Wine Bastard."

"We can land there," Gilbert began, a little apprehensive with Ivan still glaring at him. "and half of us can guard the plane while the other half refuel it."

Ivan sat up. "That sounds like it might work." he said grudgingly, not believing he was agreeing with anything the Prussian suggested.

Ludwig thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "Right, then we'll need volunteers to help guard the plane." He raised his hand. "I will stay."

Immediately, Ivan's and Gilbert's hands shot up in the air, and they eyed each other with malice. Arthur quickly shook his head, saying, "Er… I don't think it would be the wisest idea if you two were allowed to work together."

"Da," Ivan growled, his eyes flashing. "I might _accidentally_ shoot him."

"I'd like to see you try to shoot my awesome self, pretentious bastard." Gilbert snarled back, shrinking back in his seat slightly when Ivan began to mutter an unbroken string of _kolkolkol_ 's.

Arthur looked back and forth between them warily and then said, "Very well. Ivan, you will help guard the plane with Germany. Prussia, you can help me refuel the plane."

"What? No way!" Gilbert shouted in protest. "I'm too awesome for such small work!"

" _Small work_ , you say?" Arthur hissed, glaring him down. "I'll have you know that _without_ this 'small work', we wouldn't be able to _leave_ Milwaukee!"

Gilbert was about to say something else, but surprisingly kept his mouth shut, choosing instead to glare at Ivan, who was now sporting a rather smug smile.

"Now," Arthur continued, clearing his throat. "For those who will be refueling the plane… I'll nominate some of them myself, assuming they'd prefer it to guarding the plane anyway: Veneziano and Romano."

Feliciano gave an excited squeal and began waving his white flag, while Lovino relaxed in his seat.

"I will volunteer to refuel the plane also." Francis spoke up, leering at Arthur. "I would much rather not part from you, chéri."

Arthur scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Right, so the Frog saves his neck once again. As for the rest of you?"

Yao raised his hand. "I will help guard the plane."

"As will I." Kiku said.

After a few silent moments, Sadiq raised his hand. "I volunteer to guard the plane. No way am I missing this opportunity to prove that I'm the best fighter!" He glared pointedly at Yao.

Arthur rolled his eyes again. "All right, then… wait a minute, I could have sworn there were twelve of us here…"

Everyone looked around, and Matthew sighed. He had been forgotten… _again._

He stood and raised his hand, trying his best to project his normally small voice. "I will refuel the plane with you, England. I expect Al will want to help guard it."

At first, everyone looked around, as if they were hearing strange voices and were trying to locate the source. Finally, their eyes rested on Matthew, and nearly all of them jumped with surprise… except Ludwig and Ivan, both of whom seemed to have already built up their courage concerning their future mission.

Arthur nodded, trying to find his words. "Ah, yes… yes, Alfred would want to guard the plane, but—"

"Damn straight, I do!" Alfred's voice called from the cockpit. The plane listed slightly to one side as he did. "England can fill up the plane, cancha, Igs? They'll, like, totally need a leader out there—though you all know I'm the best 'cause I'm the hero and all, but I kinda wanna kick ass here!"

Arthur sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He'd been putting up with Alfred and his annoyingly loud self ever since they took off a few hours ago. "Okay, America, just… just try not to hurt yourself or anyone else, all right?"

"Will do, bro!"

"Wait a second." Gilbert protested. "Why does _America_ get to guard the plane when he and Russia nearly killed each other and the rest of the world with their fighting? I'd say we're safer letting me guard the plane along with Russia."

Arthur shook his head and Gilbert frowned. "No, unlike you, Russia and America haven't actually managed to subdue each other. I think it'll take more force than they can afford to attack each other rather than the rebels coming at them."

Gilbert stared at him in disbelief. Then he leaned back, looking away and folding his arms. "… unawesome bastards…"

"Right, then." Arthur clapped his hands in conclusion. "We should be landing in about ten minutes. I suggest you ready yourselves in the meantime." And with that, he turned on his heel and walked back through the cockpit door, Francis catcalling after him.

* * *

"Holy shit," Alfred muttered as he lowered the plane from the clouds. "Look at how many there are."

Arthur leaned forward to get a better view of the city below. "Oh dear God,"

The streets below were swarming with people. The buildings above them were smoking. Large mobs dotted the cityscape, breaking here and there, supposedly from gunfire.

"How the bloody hell are we going to land?"

" _Where_ are we going to land is the question."

Arthur's heart sped up. He hadn't thought of that.

Alfred squinted down at the ground. "There,"

"Where?"

"Right there," Alfred pointed to a place beside the airport. It looked like a hill.

Arthur studied it. "There seems to be a small crowd there…" He sighed and sat back in his chair. "But we'll just have to brave it."

"Of course we will, bro." Alfred reassured, though Arthur was still skeptical. "We got ammo, and it's not like none have us have never shot a gun before."

"Yes, but… there are so many." Arthur was nervously wringing his hands now. Alfred, of course, never thought past having enough weapons. "And we'll have to fetch the fuel truck from the airport a mile or so away. It will be a miracle if we all come out unscathed."

Before Alfred could say anything more, Arthur rose from his seat and stepped through the cockpit door into the cabin. At once, many pairs of eyes met him, some scared, some anxious, and some determined.

Arthur's throat felt unnaturally dry as he spoke, "Well… we're going to land. Before you all belt in, I'd like to bring up a couple of … quandaries." He swallowed then continued. "We will be landing a mile or so away from the airport, so I'll need some people, and we'll have to change up who's assigned to what—guards and fuelers included—to come with me in order to drive the fuel truck from there to here. There shall be no volunteering this time. I will be choosing those who will come with me, preferably the most reliable." He peered around for a moment and nodded. "Right, for the fuelers, I choose Prussia, France,"—he sighed at this as Francis smirked at him—"and Romano." The Italian's eyes widened and he blanched. _Well,_ Arthur thought. _At least he can run fast._

Arthur searched the cabin. "And… Canada?"

Matthew started, not expecting his name to be called… or even remembered. He raised his hand. Arthur nodded. "Ah, right, you can stay here with Veneziano. I trust you are still a good shot?"

"Of course," Matthew said.

"Good, then help Veneziano stay calm and please be sure he doesn't hurt himself."

"Okay,"

Arthur peered around at all of them again. "Now the guards. Hmm… I'll only need a couple, so I'll take Turkey and Germany."

Sadiq seemed perfectly fine with this, actually, he seemed excited to prove himself. Ludwig, however, shook his head. "I'm sorry, England, but I must stay with the plane. Veneziano gets very frightened if I'm not around."

"… stupid Potato Bastard." Lovino muttered, then turned to Arthur. "Don't let him stay behind! His damn closet perverseness might come out if I'm not there with him." He flashed a glare at the German.

Gilbert waved him away. "My bruder won't do anything you wouldn't like, Romano. Though I wouldn't say you'd like anything he does anyway. Besides," He smiled haughtily. "I'm so awesome, you'll forget completely about your brother, kesesese!" He put Lovino in a head lock and proceeded to muss his hair, all the while, the Italian cursing and thrashing.

Arthur shook his head. "I'm sorry, Romano, but I can't afford to do that. If I leave you here with your brother, you'll only succeed in getting each other all the more frightened."

Matthew did something very bold at that moment, pulling out his rifle and cocking it. Everyone flinched, and the Canadian smiled. _So, they hear me when I have a weapon, eh?_ "Don't worry, Romano. I've been hunting for most of my existence, so I can shoot well. If so much as one of those rebels manages to get past the rest of the guards, you can be sure I'll shoot him between the eyes before he can even _look_ at your brother."

They all stared at him before Lovino managed to break free of Gilbert's hold and say, "You'd better be telling the truth, Syrup Bastard."

Matthew smiled wryly. "Of course," And, with another audible click, put the rifle on safety again and set it down beside his seat.

Arthur went on, "Right, so I'll take China instead." Yao nodded his approval, Sadiq flashing him a challenging look, and Arthur continued. "So that's Prussia, France, Romano, and myself on fuel, and Turkey and China for guards. The rest can stay with the plane." Arthur felt the plane shift into a downwards position. Then a voice came on the speakers:

_"Gentlemen, we are going to be landing in a moment, so please buckle up and remain in your seats. Make sure all loose belongings are secured or put away and if Artie can just get his ass in here and help me land this son of a bitch, we might still be alive tomorrow!"_

"Shut your foul mouth, brat!" Arthur snapped back. "You're making everyone nervous."

The speaker came on again: _"I would just like to point out that my language is_ way _milder than the supposed 'British gentleman's'…"_

"All right!" Arthur shouted, slipping through the cockpit door and slamming it behind him. There was more shouting during which a few words slipped out such as "Arrogant prat!" and "Annoying git!" and "Should have bashed you on the head when your were younger so that your brain would be righted!"

"Settle down, bro!" Alfred said. "Now you're making _me_ nervous."

Eventually, the plane was guided to the hill and was landed without a hitch. Well, except that the anxiety on board increased exceptionally. Arthur stood from his seat, turning before he left the cockpit.

"Alfred, please don't let past animosities distract you from your mission."

"Wha?" Alfred looked at him quizzically. "Of course not, man! When have you known me to divert from any plan?"

Arthur shook his head. "Ah, just… never mind. I doubt you'll have a chance to anyway."

"Chance to do _what_ , bro?"

"Nothing, I-I," Arthur ran a hand through his hair. "Just don't disappoint me, okay? I don't want to come back here to find the whole lot of you massacred because you decided to spark something up with Russia." Before Alfred could respond, Arthur added, "And, just know if we don't happen to make it back—"

"—we're screwed?"

"No, you git…" Arthur sighed. Alfred was making this harder than it had to be. "I want you to know that… I've never hated you." _Well… close enough._

Alfred blinked at him as understanding settled over him, but before he could reply, Arthur was shutting the door to the cockpit behind him.

Arthur stepped into the cabin and was surprised—and quite terrified—to find that Ivan was standing in front of him. He gave a small yelp and scrambled back a bit before righting himself and asking, his voice unusually high, "R-ready, are we?"

"Da," Ivan answered, though his hands were empty of weapons, Arthur knew his trench coat was full of them. "We are more than ready. The rebels are approaching," The Russian indicated the mob through the windows as it made its way up the steep hill. "I suggest you go down the back of the hill with the rest of your group so that you will not be spotted. The rest of us will hold them off." Then, slapping him rather roughly on the shoulder with a cold hand, Ivan said firmly, "Good luck, comrade. And just remember: if you don't succeed in obtaining the fuel truck, then all our deaths will be the result of your failed plan." He smiled down at him

Arthur nodded, his hand going to massage the spot on his shoulder that he was sure had a large bruise blossoming in the shape of the Russian's large hand. "Yeah, right, I'll remember."

He moved past Ivan with a shiver, his heart now pounding painfully against his ribcage, and pulled the switch that open the hatch and released the inflatable slide which would serve as their way down from the plane. He then turned, motioning toward them. "Right, then. My group, follow me out first. We'll be going around the backside of the plane and down the back of the hill to avoid detection. The rest of you slide down after us and hold the mob off the best you can until we can get the fuel truck up here."

" _Tous pour un, un pour tous_." Francis said with a smile, putting his hand out, palm down.

It took a moment for Arthur to translate on account of his anxiety, but he eventually said, "All for one, one for all, right." He was apprehensive to touch Francis's hand at first, but he eventually put his hand on top of Francis's. He rolled his eyes as Francis leered, though he had to admit, he was feeling much more confident now.

"I'm awesomely in, kesese!" Gilbert said, slapping his hand down.

"We must work as one now," Yao said, adding his own.

"A samurai never gives up on his teammates." Kiku said.

"Ja, all hostilities are over between us." Ludwig said.

"For now, at least." Sadiq said.

"Ve~me too! I want in too!" Feliciano said.

Lovino looked at them all, thoroughly unimpressed. Then, "This is such a waste of time, but fine, dammit!" He put in his hand as well, albeit grudglingly.

"Don't forget me," Matthew put his hand in, making everyone flinch as they just noticed him.

Alfred exited the cockpit, saw what was going on and said, "Whoo! All right, team huddle!" And slapped his hand down, causing the stack of others to almost crumble from the unchecked strength.

Ivan put his hand over Alfred's, and the two had a slight scuffle to see whose hand would come out on top until Ivan eventually won by crushing Alfred's fingers. "Da, we are all in this together, now." He glared at Alfred, who gave him an equally malicious look.

Francis smiled. "All for one, and one for—"

"Pastaaaa~!"

Everyone looked at Feliciano quizzically before Francis nodded and said, "One for pasta."

They all took back their hands and turned to the slide.

His heart in his throat, Arthur slid down first, quickly followed by a confident Gilbert, a nervous Francis, and a hesitant Lovino. Sadiq and Yao arranged their weapons before sliding down after them.

 _And so it begins._ Arthur thought as he stared out at the people approaching.

_The countdown._

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: It's the final countdooown, dunuh, nuh, nuh, dunuh, nuh, nuh, nuh...

Spoiled the mood, didn't I? Well, shit. XD

Annoying cliffhanger is annoying. *cue announcer voice* But tune in next time to see the most dramatic chapter yet. X3


	17. Against the Clock I

**Let's hope England learned some stuff from all those 007 movies.  
**

Warning: Angst, weapons, stuff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

  
**Against the Clock I**   


Arthur's stomach was not coping well with the current situation, and he feared that if he spoke, nothing would come out but vomit. Instead, he directed his group, Francis, Gilbert, Lovino, Sadiq, and Yao included, out of the plane, down the slide, and onto the ground.

It took a moment for Arthur to steady his feet, for the flight to America and the flight here had done a number on his legs. He motioned for his group to follow him, not daring to assess the position of the mob, though he could tell from the clatter they were making, that they were already halfway up the hill. Luckily, though, no one could see them from where they stood now on the ground. If they hurried, they would not be spotted and pursued.

Knowing that time was not on their side, Arthur broke into a run, the others following him, until they reached the crest of the hill. He stopped at the top, carefully picking his way down the side until he reached the bottom, by which time he could hear the sound of gunshots and shouting from above.

_God, please let this work…_ he thought as the rest of his group gathered behind him. He turned to them. "All right. This is what will happen. I'm going to look around the side of this hill and locate a secure escape route. If I do, I will signal to you."

Francis raised an eyebrow. "And what will the signal be, ami?"

"You'll know." And he was off.

He ran as fast as he could, despite knowing they were not seen, his mind becoming increasingly fogged with paranoia. Every sense was on high alert, every muscle tense, so that even the snapping of a twig or the squawk of a bird nearby seemed unnaturally harsh.

He reached the edge of the hill after what seemed like ages, the sounds from above pushing him on. Arthur cautiously peered around the hill, eyes surveying the area to and from the airport with great scrutiny. Finally, his eyes locked on a trail that made a wide path around the hill—and the crowd—that led behind a few warehouses which sat on the edge of the runway. From what it sounded like, the mob was too intent on plowing through the guards and securing the plane to even notice his group.

Arthur smiled in spite of himself and turned around, waving his arms over his head. The rest of his group noticed immediately and rushed up to meet him. By now, Lovino was shaking.

"Okay, you see that path?" Arthur indicated with a motion of his hand. "We're going to follow it and end at those warehouses over there. If this works, and if my observations are correct, they won't spot us. But we have to be quick, right?"

"Right!"

"Okay," Arthur swallowed dryly and willed his limbs to cease trembling. "Let's carry on, shall we?"

With a deep breath, he darted out from behind the hill, the rest of his group in hot pursuit. He could hear Lovino resisting as he was harshly being pulled along by Gilbert.

Arthur dared not look up or back. His only focus was on the warehouse ahead of him. As more gunshots rang out, he urged his feet to move faster, and eventually, he was at the wall of the long building, inching over into one of the doors. He quickly found a sturdy box and sank down onto it, trying to catch his breath and slow the sporadic beating of his heart.

He was so absorbed in regaining his strength that he didn't notice the others enter.

Francis was the first in after him, leaning with a hand against the wall, clutching a stitch in his side. Gilbert came in next, tugging with him Lovino, who was trying to pry the Prussian's hand off of his wrist and was shouting, his voice a mixture of indignance and panic. Yao rushed in after them, stopping to stand by the door, his wok raised and ready. Sadiq was last, running in and preparing to sit and rest before he saw Yao, at which point he unsheathed his kilij and took up position opposite Yao at the door, ever the one not to be outdone.

Francis turned to Arthur, coughing a bit to clear his throat. "Angleterre… w-where do we go now?"

Arthur stood, still panting, and walked over to peer out of the windows. "There," he said after a moment. "That truck there, near the luggage belt. We need to get there without being seen. Though I don't see anyone around at the moment."

"Yes, for moment." Yao said. "It not be peaceful for long."

"I agree," Sadiq huffed with a glare at Yao.

"Should we send someone out to see?" Francis suggested.

"Ja!" Gilbert replied, swinging Lovino forward. "Ja, have this one go out. If anyone is out there, he'll take off running so fast, they'll never catch him! Kesesese!"

Lovino squirmed in his grasp, punching him with all his might, but only succeeding in making himself look like a weakling. "Let go of me, dammit! Get your Potato Bastard hands off of me!"

"Be quiet!" Sadiq hissed at them. "And stop moving around so much, it'll attract attention."

Lovino stopped instantly, flashing the man a furious look. Gilbert smirked, still holding Lovino tightly around the wrist so that he couldn't get away.

Arthur stood. "Right, so, me first." He walked over to the doors and pushed them slowly open, peering out to make sure the coast was clear. "Okay, I'll run out. If all's well and we can cross, I'll signal you."

Francis raised an eyebrow. "You will wave your arms again?"

Arthur turned to him with a sarcastic look. "No, France, I'll stand on my head and jump up and down with my ears—of course I'll wave my arms!"

Yao stared at Arthur with amusement. "How disappointing. That would be sight to see."

Arthur gave Yao a glare that made Yao shrink back a bit and turned to the doors. Taking a deep breath as if he were about to dive off a cliff, Arthur ran out of the doors and a little ways down the runway, eyes on the hill. His heart was pounding as he stared, praying that he would not be noticed. When it was confirmed that the mob was too engaged in dealing with the guards, Arthur breathed a sigh of relief and looked to his right.

His heart jumped into his throat as he saw another mob charging onto the opposite side of the runway from the airport terminals, weapons brandished and shouting with rage.

With a startled yelp, Arthur darted into the warehouse again, barely able to gather his words as the others looked curiously at him.

"They're… they're coming…"

"What!" Lovino shrieked, going stock still and paling considerably.

"From where?" Sadiq asked, raising his kilij. Beside him, Yao lifted his wok.

Arthur pointed. "There… over there, from the city."

Lovino's eyes widened as he peered out the windows, and he actually looked as if he were clutching Gilbert's arm. "Oh well… we tried, didn't we?"

They all looked at him scathingly.

Arthur straightened up and struggled to stop the rapid beating of his heart. "We can't just give up. If we go back to the plane empty-handed, we might as well all shoot ourselves because we'll be dead anyway."

Lovino frowned. "That makes me feel better, bastard."

"Well, it's the truth!" Arthur walked over to one of the windows and peered out cautiously. "They're nearly here… and they've spotted us. Damn! If only we had a bit more time, and then I could figure out the safest way to get across!"

"That makes me feel a _lot_ better, bastard."

"Shut _up_ , Romano!"

Arthur's eyes flew to the window again. "Oh, God, er… okay, think, think, Arthur! You've done this before!"

Francis raised a curious eyebrow. "You have, ami?"

Arthur growled. "Of course I have. Now, shut up, I'm thinking."

A few moments passed, all the while the crowd approaching nearer and Arthur peering anxiously out of the windows.

Then finally, "Aha!" Arthur turned back to them, a commanding gleam in his eye. "All right. To make this work, we'll have to split—"

" _Again_?" Lovino sputtered in horror.

"—Turkey, Prussia, and Romano, you go out first."

"Why _me_?"

Arthur glared at Lovino. "Because you're one hell of a good runner. Besides, if I let you come with me, you'll only get in the way." He nodded to the albino. "Prussia will help you."

Lovino looked as if he was about to faint with fright, but Gilbert had a firm grip on his wrist. "Ja, don't worry. I'm an _awesome_ guardian. You'll be safe with me, kesesese!"

The group of three gathered in one corner while Francis loped up, a leering smile on his face. "Does that mean I get to come with _you_ , amour?"

Arthur pushed him away, wiping his hands on his pants afterward. Who knew what sorts of diseases the Frog had from sleeping around? "Yeah, yeah, but don't dwell on it. If you get in my way, I'll bloody bowl you over."

Francis smirked. "I wouldn't mind that, cher. Although it seems to me by not sending me off you are starting to warm up to me~" He winked, though his face was a bit paler than before.

Arthur ignored that for the sake of reserving his punches for the rebels.

Yao joined them a moment later, his wok hefted in one hand and grimacing. "It's going to be long run to make it across to truck. I'll try best I can to keep you safe."

Arthur nodded. "Good, then. Though I doubt you'll have to do anything but just run." He turned to the other group, Lovino now trembling and Sadiq eyeing Yao evenly. "You guys will run out first and lure the mob away from us. With them thinking that you're the only ones that were in here, I'll be able to sneak out with my group and get the truck."

Sadiq broke his challenging gaze with Yao to raise an eyebrow. "And when we cannot run anymore?"

Arthur frowned. He hadn't thought of that. Perhaps his strategic mind had worn out over the years after all, though he didn't like to believe it. "Uh, right… loop around all the warehouses and get to the truck. I'll have it driven close enough for you to get on. I believe we can all fit on it if we try."

Lovino scoffed, finding his words, his voice still trembling. "Che, not with the Potato Bastard's big head…"

Gilbert frowned and gave Lovino's wrist a rough yank. "Did you just insult my awesomeness, Tomato-Eater?"

"N-no… oww, dammit, bastard, ease up!"

"Shh, Romano!" Francis hissed anxiously.

"He started it, dammit!"

"Shut it, will you?!" Arthur whispered harshly, assessing the approach of the mob through the windows. "Twenty meters and closing." He turned to Gilbert, Yao, and Lovino. "You'd better leave now before they can catch up."

"Bien sûr, ami." Francis muttered, motioning for the rest of his group to leave. "Go."

Gilbert exited first, pulling Lovino along with him, much to the excitement of the charging crowd. Yao went last, bullets ricocheting off of his wok as he effectively blocked the gunfire. Arthur straightened, surveying the rest of his group. Sadiq and of course… Francis. Well, this would certainly test his physical strength as well as his mental. He quickly unbuttoned his dress shirt, still splattered with Lennox's blood. He could practically feel Francis's eyes on him the whole time, but forced himself to ignore it. He looked the shirt over for a moment, wanting desperately to toss it because of the blood stain on it, but he eventually decided to keep it. After all, he may need it.

He tied the shirt around his waist, now clad in only his white undershirt, a pair of black slacks, and trainers. It was an odd sort of shoe wear, but he thanked God that he had chosen them instead of the more uncomfortable dress shoes. Surely those would have slowed him down.

Francis locked eyes with Arthur for a few seconds, a somber expression on his face. Confused, Arthur stared back, raising one large eyebrow. At last, he realized and nodded, Francis also dipping his head in turn.

This may be the last time they would ever safely talk to each other again.

He snorted. Yeah, like never talking again to Francis would bother him.

Arthur turned, gesturing for Francis and Sadiq to squat down behind the boxes. They all did just in time. The mob came, guns blazing and blades brandished around the corner and outside the warehouse. They all waited for them to pass by, then slowly got up. Sadiq darted over to the door and peeked out. He turned to them.

"Gone,"

"Let's go," Arthur said, sticking his head out of the door and looking both ways before deeming it all clear and broke into a run toward the truck.

He could hear the sound of shoe-clad feet clicking against the runway. Arthur didn't bother to look back, assured by the heavy breaths coming from behind him.

Arthur could clearly hear the mobs around the back of the buildings and on the hill beyond. By the sound of it, the closest mob was nearly three-quarters of the way around the warehouses. Arthur pushed himself, making himself run faster, blood roaring in his ears, his strength ebbing faster than ever before…

Soon he found himself gasping for breath, speed-walking the last few paces to the truck, placing a hand on the side, hunched over, breathing with difficulty. From the looks of it, Francis and Sadiq weren't faring so well either. Francis—who was unsurprisingly right behind him, no doubt wanting to get a good view of his backside—put his hands on his knees, gasping. Sadiq had locked his hands behind his head, pacing around and huffing.

Arthur could never remember being so tired. They were countries, not normal humans. They couldn't tire so easily after such a short time, just like they couldn't be killed by humans…

His heart lurched as he realized something, but before he could think more on it, Sadiq glanced behind him, his hand going to his sheathed kilij and said, "They're coming,"

"Oui, cher," Francis said. "We don't have much time."

Arthur straightened and said, "Right, I'll drive."

They all rushed to the truck, Arthur opening the door—"Oh, thank God, the keys are still in the ignition."—and buckled up, starting the truck just as Francis slid into the passenger seat.

"Turkey is in the back. Just in case the mob catches up, he'll defend the tank from bullets."

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "With just his kilij?" The Turkish sword was pretty thin.

Francis shook his head. "He picked up a bit of scrap metal along the way. It looks strong enough to stop the rounds."

The Briton nodded and shifted gears. "All right, let's see how fast this thing can go…"

He pressed the gas, turning the truck around with jerky precision, not having driven a car since before the Uprising. Francis was thrown back in his seat with a cry, and Arthur thought he heard Turkish swears drifting from the back of the truck.

Arthur pulled them around to the front of the last warehouse, reversing so that the rest of his group could jump on and he could take off when they came around the corner.

The shouting got closer, and Arthur could feel his hands gripping the steering wheel more firmly, his palms covered in a nervous sweat.

Then, from his side mirror, he saw the rest of his group emerge; Lovino in the lead, Gilbert struggling to keep up with his frantic pace just behind, and Yao running backward with surprising speed, blocking bullets with his now dented wok.

Francis stuck his head out one of the windows and yelled, "Vite! Vite, amis! Get on the back!"

Arthur felt the truck dip a little with the new weight thrown onto the back, and Francis turned to him, nodding. "Allons-y, Angleterre."

Arthur faced forward and pressed on the gas just as the mob came around the corner and a few meters away, shooting and yelling with rage. "Here we go!"

And the truck shot off across the runway. Arthur didn't pay attention to the debris that littered the pavement as he went. All he was worried about was getting the hell out of there unscathed. It was only when Francis shouted, "Watch out!" that he knew he should have been paying better attention to what lay on the ground.

Arthur swerved sharply, barely missing the sharp bit of scrap metal that surely would have popped the truck's tires. Just as he was breathing a sigh of relief, though, a fierce uproar came from the back of the truck. But he didn't have time to stop and listen.

Finally, Francis stuck his head out of the window again. "What?" He was silent as he listened, the cries becoming more frantic as he did. Then he leaned back in and turned to Arthur with wide eyes, his face pale. "It's Romano… he's fallen off."

"What!" Arthur was so shocked that he slammed on the brakes, throwing everyone in the truck forward. There was a protesting din from the back where no doubt the others had hit their heads rather harshly on the fuel tank. Arthur ignored them and looked into his side mirror, uttering a yelp of horror as he saw Lovino lying sprawled on the ground, cursing and holding his injured shoulder. And behind him, the mob was gaining ground, weapons raised and ready to take a captive for survival.

* * *

Translations:  


Bien sûr-Of course

Vite-Quickly

Allons-y-Let's go

A Word From the Writer: Nu, Romano! He can run hella fast be he can't hold on for shit. What will happen to him? Who will save him? Why am I talking like some movie announcer?

Just ignore me and read on, my dears!


	18. Against the Clock II

**Prepare for tension overload.  
**

Warning: Angst, fight scene, weapons, insults from both America and Russia to each other, tension, threats, violence. You know, some actual, action-y stuff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Against the Clock II**

Alfred watched Arthur go, a lump forming in his throat as his brother disappeared off the crest of the hill. He quickly swallowed the feeling, looking up the slide as the others slid down and bounced off the end to stand beside him.

Ivan came down first, naturally, not to be outdone by his rival. He stood a few feet from Alfred, a step ahead of him, as if proving he was bolder. Alfred saw at a glance that Ivan had his pipe in hand. He turned to him, raising a questioning eyebrow.

Ivan sensed he was being watched and, without bothering to look at him, said, "Is something bothering you, comrade?"

"Yeah," Alfred replied. "Why not your gun?" Then Alfred frowned. "And don't call me 'comrade.'"

"You never think ahead." Ivan shook his head as the others slid down and joined them. "Bullets… I'd rather not waste them where we're going."

Alfred scoffed. "You just like to bash people's heads in and watch the blood splatter."

Ivan sighed. "Why am I always such a monster in your eyes?"

"Because that's what you are." Alfred replied coldly, cocking his handgun. "And I know how you are. I've been your rival for years, remember that."

"Please don't start a fight, Al. Not now." Matthew said, his rifle held tightly in his hands. "We need to focus. Be ready."

Alfred heaved a sigh and said, "Fine. But if that asshole decides to snipe at me one more time, I won't hesitate to confront him."

Ivan chuckled and Alfred started. Damn, the dude really did have the ears of a fox. "You may confront me whenever you please, Amerika. I can assure you that I am more than ready."

Matthew shook his head. "Not you too, Russia. Please don't be argumentative. Now is not the time."

Kiku nodded in agreement. "Yes, America-san. If England-san finds you two fighting, he will lecture you for hours."

They all groaned. All of them at some point in their lives had heard one of Arthur's infamous disciplinary rants. Sometimes they even went on for a couple of days.

"Agreed," Ludwig said, cocking his gun as well. Feliciano was standing beside him, shivering, gripping the German's hard shoulder with panic. "In order to survive, we need to work together. That means we must forget our differences." He broke off to murmur some comforting words to Feliciano.

Matthew stepped forward, daring to stand between Alfred and Ivan, saying, "Right, we're a team now. One for all and one for… pasta." He struggled to hold in a laugh.

Feliciano straightened up. "Pasta~!"

Alfred laughed under his breath. "Yeah, for pasta."

Ivan took out a flask from his coat and took a long swig from it. Alfred stared at him. "Can you aim well when you're drunk?"

Ivan chuckled as he put away the flask. "I don't get drunk." Then he quirked a smile. "But then again you're the one to know my aim is _always_ good."

Ludwig suddenly pried Feliciano off his arm and pushed the Italian behind him, aiming his gun. "They're coming,"

Ivan shifted slowly, not bothering to raise his pipe. "I know. I've been listening to them."

Alfred scoffed. "That's totally creepy, dude." And he raised his handgun. "Time to take these bastards down. They'll learn that they can't just use force to get what is already someone else's."

Ivan chuckled darkly. "Like country like citizens."

Alfred was about to make a scathing remarked when Matthew hissed, "Shh, you two!" and stepped forward to stand beside his brother, raising his rifle. He was surprised that everyone noticed him. "Focus, Al."

"I am, I am already, damn!" He glared daggers at Ivan and the Russian smiled amiably back at him.

"Ve… G-Germany?"

"Ja, Veneziano?"

"We're going to be leaving soon, right?"

"We'll see,"

Alfred's brow wrinkled. "Kiku?"

"Yes, America-san?"

"Are you sure you'll be all right with just your sword? This ain't like your old feudal days."

"Of course, America-san."

"And don't call me America-san, Kiku. There really is no need for formalities in this shithole world."

"It is my tradition, America-san."

"Whatever, just watch yourself, okay?"

Kiku said nothing else, his eyes never leaving the approaching crowd.

The mob was about ten yards away and closing. Many of them were taking out their guns and starting to aim. The first man took aim directly at Alfred, but was quickly shot down. Alfred's ears rang as he turned to see Matthew cocking his rifle again, a fresh shell still smoking at his feet.

"Get them before they get us…" the Canadian muttered, taking aim again and shooting down a man who was a fair distance away.

Ludwig began firing not long after, and Alfred quickly followed suit. Alfred focused on those in the front of the mob, shooting them down easily so that the others behind them stumbled over their bodies. Without having to be told, Ludwig took the left front while Alfred took the right. Matthew, meanwhile, took out all the ones in the back that looked as if their aim would prove true.

Finally, the few people that had managed to avoid any bullets—some had bits of scrap metal to protect themselves—or had survived the blows staggered forward, pulling out their weapons. One limped right toward Ivan, pausing just a few feet from him, raising a loaded semi-automatic. Alfred watched the man carefully out of the corner of his eye, not wanting to admit to himself that he would cover the Russian if need be. But that possibility was not likely. _That man's got some balls for taking on Russia…_ he thought. He even had to admit that Ivan was a little scary.

But only a _little_.

As soon as the wounded man took aim, his finger twitching on the trigger, Ivan lunged forward, raising his pipe, the metal whistling through the air as it came down hard on the man's head, crushing his skull. Alfred watched with disbelief as blood shot from the man's nose and mouth and he crumpled to the ground. Ivan caught his eye, but quickly directed his attention to the approaching people.

As many times as Ivan had hit anybody with his pipe—Alfred included—he had never hit _that_ hard. And seeing as only countries could kill each other, that was a good thing… _But he's still a monster._ he thought grudgingly.

Alfred came to a sudden realization, but was brought back to reality by his brother nudging him in the ribs. "In front of you!"

"What?"

The man in front of him fired, and Alfred stepped to the side, hearing the bullet whiz by his head. Tembling a bit in shock, Alfred raised his own gun and shot the man through the head.

As with every kill he made, he knew he was shooting his own people down and it made him feel dizzy. Even though he knew he couldn't help the fact that they hated him, that didn't make gunning them down like wild animals any better.

Alfred had been so lost in his own thoughts, that he didn't notice that the full force of the mob had swept through them. He looked beside him, but Matthew was no longer there. Instead, his brother was standing on a boulder above the crowd a few yards away, shooting down anyone who came near him. Ludwig, meanwhile, had escorted Feliciano to the boulder on which Matthew was standing, and told him to climb on. The Italian did so, and Ludwig proceeded to turn around and defend the boulder along with Matthew. Kiku had disappeared in the mob, and Alfred's heart pounded as he looked around and found no trace of him. But when he spotted people flying backward from one area in the mob and blood shooting through the air like that of the cuts from a blade, Alfred knew he was alive and well. He watched as Kiku darted through the crowd, barely able to see him, but knowing where he was by the amounts of people that were slashed down in several areas.

And then there was Ivan… surely he had gone deeper into the crowd to bash more heads in for his own enjoyment? But Alfred was surprised to find that the Russian was still beside him, and had in fact moved a few feet toward him.

Alfred shot down a couple of people that were getting a little too close for comfort before looking curiously at him. Ivan noticed, and looked at him too before smacking a few more people down with his pipe and walking over.

"Coping well, comrade?" He smiled, his face and coat splattered with blood.

"Why would you care?"

"Why do you act so cold toward me? Our fight is over."

"Doesn't matter," Alfred snorted, shooting down a couple more people, his heart giving a painful lurch in the process. "I don't need your concern. You couldn't give two shits if I lived or died. Actually, I'm betting you'd celebrate if I was killed."

Ivan chuckled, shaking his head. Alfred growled as he downed another shooter. "What's so funny, bastard?"

"You're just so immature."

"What did you call me?"

"It's true," Ivan said, not minding to acknowledge the murderous glare Alfred was giving him. "You never forget past rivalries. Isn't that why you have so many enemies, Amerika? Maybe that's why you're having to shoot your own people down and suffer for every citizen you kill."

"Shut up, asshole."

"You know it's true. And I know what you're feeling. I've gone through it too. That's why I chose to die and not suppress my people's wishes by shooting them down like common criminals in the process, but, alas, I was brought here to endure your endless good company."

"You don't know me."

"I do. And you're selfish for not allowing your country to have a rebirth, for not dying with it, as your people wish, like the democracy you claim you have. If it weren't for me being captured and stuck on a plane bound for here, I would have let it happen." He turned to slam his pipe into the face of another approaching civilian, the man's face streaming with blood from his broken nose.

Alfred pointed his gun to the side of Ivan's head, cocking it. "Don't _ever_ compare me to your vicious, tyrant ass ever again."

"And what would you do?" Ivan asked calmly, smiling, taking down another attacker with ease, as if having a gun pointed to his head was something that happened daily. "Would you kill me? You could. You could have chosen to do that very thing years ago when you came to gloat. But you didn't." He turned to look at Alfred, his violet eyes dark, the barrel of the gun still digging into his skull. "You _need_ me, Amerika. That's what you've never been able to admit. And now I know why you do."

Alfred glared at him, determined not to blink, waiting for his answer. But Ivan simply turned around with an empty expression and continued to whack at incomers like they had not just had a very tense conversation. Confused and angry as hell, Alfred returned to shooting, his frustration chasing out his pain.

Kiku showed up at his side quicker than he could blink, peering up at him, his katana dripping with fresh blood, his face freckled with it. "America-san, the plane is secure. The rest are retreating."

So caught up in his rage, Alfred hadn't noticed that the hill was nearly empty. The survivors had clambered down, running back to the city, the others that remained were either injured or out-of-their-minds crazy. One man came running at Ludwig and was promptly shot through the head, stumbling back and collapsing to the ground in a piled heap. Behind him on the boulder, Feliciano whimpered and started crying hysterically. Matthew was trying to console him.

"Is good," Ivan said, examining the plane and the corpse-littered ground. "Let's keep a lookout for the rest, da?"

Everyone nodded except for Alfred, who was still angry about his fight with Ivan. "Already on it."

Ivan didn't bother to look at him, but his creepy, childlike smile had returned. He looked down, smashing his pipe onto the head of a still-moving body. "Very wise of you to take my advice, Amerika."

Alfred wanted to say more, but Kiku shook his head beside him. So, he resigned himself to sitting on the crest of the hill, eyes scanning the city, sitting as far away from Ivan as possible and trying not to think about what he had said. Yeah, right, the bastard knew him…

"Al?" Matthew asked. Alfred looked behind him where his brother had seated himself, rifle in his lap. "Are you okay? You have that look."

Alfred snorted. "What look, bro? I'm fine!"

Matthew's frown deepened. "That look you always have when you can't figure something out, when something's bothering you."

Alfred sighed. "Yeah, I'm worried about Iggy." he lied, though it was only a half-sided one.

Matthew raised an eyebrow, knowing there was more to it, but deciding it would be too much at the moment to go any further. Instead, he directed his attention to Ludwig, who was now trying to calm Feliciano down just a few yards away on the grass. "I am too. How the hell are we supposed to get out of here if he doesn't get that truck up the hill?"

"I dunno," Alfred huffed, wanting so much to light up a cigarette at the moment for his anxiety. His old addiction was catching up with him. "I just hope he gets here soon."

"Look!" Kiku's voice rang out from behind them, and they all turned to see him standing on the boulder, pointing. "The truck! Look, there!"

They turned and Alfred felt his heart lurch.

On the runway, very, very far away it seemed, sat the truck. A few people were seated in the back. A mob had surrounded it, but the vehicle still remained stationary.

Alfred quickly stood and called, "Arthur!" and ran forward, intending to run down the hill and help, but someone grabbed a tight hold of his arm and stopped him. Confused at how someone else could hold him back—as the only one who was as strong as him was Ivan—he peered back. Matthew looked desperately up at him, shaking his head quickly.

"No, Al, please stay here." Alfred was about to reply, but Matthew raised his rifle and pointed it at his leg. Alfred looked, horrified, at his twin. "If you don't stay," Matthew continued boldly, his voice trembling a bit. "I won't hesitate to hobble you. It won't kill you, but at least then I know you'll be safe."

Alfred continued to stare disbelievingly at him, then looked back at the runway. The truck had still not moved. He yanked his arm out of Matthew's grip, feeling betrayed. Matthew tried to say something, but Alfred growled, "Don't. I'll stay." Then he went silent, watching, hoping, praying that somehow Arthur and the others would make it out unharmed.

But then again, assessing the situation from where he could see it, that was slim chance.

He gasped, squinting his eyes, watching with horror as someone jumped out of the back of the truck and began fighting their way through the mob. _Please don't be Artie._ he thought desperately.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Muhahaha, looking for that next button? Too bad! Another cliffhanger! I'm sorry, but I'm really trying to pace myself, because my last fic I kinda slacked off and the chapters caught up with me and it was a lot of pressure to write a chapter in a week with everything going on with life and shit so... yeah, that was a lot of and's, but what the hell, you get it. XD


	19. Against the Clock III

**Where's a fishing pole when you need it? XD  
**

Warning: Angst, weapons, death threats, fight scene.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

  
**Against the Clock III**   


"What!"

"Quickly, Angleterre!" Francis shouted over the din of the approaching crowd. "Reverse so that Romano can get back on!"

"But—!" Arthur tried to protest, but a prickly lump had suddenly formed in his throat. He was at a complete loss about what to do. Should he reverse and put the rest of his group in danger by having them so dangerously close to the mob? Or should he continue on and hope that Lovino would be quick enough to escape their vicious clutches? He didn't have to think upon both the options before making a decision.

No, he would not let Lovino die. They were in this together now, and they had to keep alive for the sake of their nations…. No matter how irksome the Italian may be at times.

All the while Arthur was thinking, Francis was staring at him, a look of incredulous horror on his face. "Qu'est-ce que vous faisez, ami? We can't just leave him!"

Arthur gave him a determined look and shifted gears fiercely. "No, we can't." It was the only thing he had ever agreed upon between him and Francis.

Before he could dwell on that disturbing fact, he pressed on the gas (gently this time) and reversed so that Lovino was a few feet away from the back wheels.

"France!" Arthur snapped. Francis turned, surprised by the fact that he was not being called his usual 'Frog.' "Lean out and tell the rest of them to get Romano. And quickly! We haven't got much time as it is." His eyes darted to his side mirror where he could see the mob gaining ground with terrifying speed.

"D'accord, Angleterre." And Francis leaned out of the window, crouching on his seat until half of his body was hanging out. "Hé! Hé! Amis! Get Romano! Vite!"

There were a few yells in response, and the truck shifted as it was relieved of at least one of its occupants. Arthur peered into the mirror and saw that it was Gilbert. He scoffed. "Well, _that's_ not surprising in the least."

"Prussia…" Francis muttered, peering out his mirror also. "Non, that's definitely not—" Then the Frenchman gripped his seat, fingers digging into the cushion. Arthur turned to him quizzically. Francis had completely blanched. "Prussia!" This was followed by a string of frantic French, spoken so fast and tremulously that Arthur couldn't decipher it.

"What is it?"

"Regardez-vous!" And he pointed to the mirror.

Arthur did and his stomach seemed to drop out. "Shit!"

The mob was swarming up past the back of the vehicle, and from where he sat, Arthur could see neither Lovino nor Gilbert. He unbuckled his seat belt, intending to leap out and run to their aid, but Francis threw an arm across his torso, pushing him back into his seat with surprising force.

When Arthur gave him a furious look, Francis shook his head quickly. "Non, Angleterre! It's too dangerous."

Arthur looked incredulously at him, then began to struggle out of his grasp. "I can handle it, dammit! It's not your choice to make. Let go of me!"

But Francis's grip was firm, and he even leaned over to wrap his arms around Arthur's shoulders and pulled him back. "I can't let you do that! We need a driver!"

Arthur continued to struggle. "But—Romano—is— _dying_!"

"You don't know that, ami." Francis said, not letting up. "Prussia may not be what he once was, but he's still strong. He won't let Romano die, I promise. Stay, _please_ , Arthur!"

Arthur stopped jerking in his arms, in shock from hearing his name come from the Frenchman's mouth. He was still for a moment before he pushed Francis grudgingly off of him and sat back in his seat. "Don't touch me."

Francis sat back in his seat also, not seeming surprised. "Look, ami. Prussia is still alive, just like I told you."

Arthur's eyes darted to the side mirror and his heart sped up. When he had calmed down some, he turned to Francis, a smile on his face despite the severity of their predicament. "So it seems. An idiot, but brave idiot."

Gilbert continued to hold onto Lovino as the truck wound its way toward the hill. Beside him, Yao and Sadiq were arguing with each other over how many foes they had taken down in a fight.

"I am oldest nation. So I take down more enemies."

"Well, you may be an old-ass, but I was a congregation of tribes before I settled down. We looted and murdered in almost every city we came across."

"Ha! You'd be lucky to have conquered as many people as I have when you're always stuffing your fa—"

The truck suddenly swerved sharply. Sadiq cursed as his head bumped against the fuel tank. Beside him, Yao yelped, losing his grip and sliding over so that he was practically sitting in Sadiq's lap. Gilbert, meanwhile, also bumped his head, and was so caught up in dealing with his pain, that he hadn't noticed his grip had lightened on Lovino, who was sitting beside him, and felt a weight lift from his left side.

He heard the cry of pain before he even noticed that the Italian was no longer on the back of the truck, and Gilbert, alarmed, attempted to stand but was knocked back against the tank. He watched, heart pounding erratically as the truck sped off away from Lovino, the Italian currently howling and clutching his injured shoulder on the ground.

Beside him, Yao removed himself from Sadiq's lap and shouted, "What hap—?"

Gilbert pointed tremulously to where Lovino lay on the runway. "Romano!"

Sadiq nudged Yao and shouted to him, "Wave your hands, yell, do something to stop the British dumbass from driving away!"

Offended at being ordered around so rudely, Yao swallowed his anger and waved in the driver's side mirror. "Stop! Stop! He fell off!"

It took a few moments for the truck to come to a complete stop, and many more for the truck to back up. It sounded like a scuffle had taken place in the front of the vehicle between Francis and Arthur… and Arthur's voice tended to carry whenever he was angry or frustrated—which was quite often and a voice that most of them knew very well.

When they were a few feet away from Lovino, Gilbert jumped off the back, gathering the screaming Italian in his arms before looking up and finding himself in some serious shit.

The crowd was sweeping around them, weapons raised and ready. Soon, both Gilbert and Lovino were crouched in the thick of it, unsure of what to do. Gilbert wanted more than anything to try and make a quick escape, but Lovino had thoroughly latched onto his waist, hands locked and surprisingly strong. Gilbert frowned. This was the worst of times for Lovino to suddenly find his clingy strength. Heart pounding rapidly in his chest, the Prussian continued to crouch, at a complete loss about what to do.

Then a man close to them, brandishing a machete, said, "Stand, and stay where you are."

Gilbert did exactly that, dragging the whimpering mess of the Italian with him, looking around.

They all had their weapons raised and ready to strike, and they didn't look like they were about to just let them go peacefully. Gilbert's worst fears were confirmed when a man said, "You will agree to come with us or die trying to escape." Instantly he felt as if a vat of cold water had just been poured down his back.

Gilbert gathered himself and straightened, holding Lovino close to him so that the Italian no longer had a need to cling onto him protectively and the smaller nation let go. He looked at who seemed to be the leader: the one with the machete. "We will come quietly." He agreed, and bowed his head.

Lovino buried his face in the Prussian's chest and sobbed quite loudly. Gilbert could do nothing else for him but rub his back soothingly. It didn't seem to help much.

Around them, the crowd shifted, contemplating whether or not they should seize the vehicle also. A couple or yards so away, Yao and Sadiq looked horrified and conflicted.

"No," their leader snapped. "We'll leave 'em. If we're lucky, they'll go back to their pals on that hill and arrange a trade with us for these two."

"And what would that be for, Boss?"

"The plane of course, dumbass."

Gilbert stiffened at this. Lovino cried even harder into his shirt. If he didn't find a way to escape this crowd, there would be no way the others would survive… unless they were heartless assholes and decided to just leave them behind, which he was pretty sure Ludwig would not allow.

"Please," Gilbert begged. "Don't hurt us."

One of them scoffed. "Yeah, like your little friends up there on that hill aren't as violent as us."

"Ya see," the boss said, his machete twitching in his hand. "We all have needs, brother. It's not like we're doin' this out of enjoyment. In fact, it's quite a pain in the ass to lug two spineless twerps around for ransom. Really hinders our survival, if you know what I mean." He smirked.

"Of course, ja." Gilbert said, nodding enthusiastically and Lovino clung even tighter to his shirt as he spread his arms. "Take us. We won't struggle. Anything… please, just don't hurt us."

A man with a sawed-off shotgun nearby leered. "Heh, we'll try."

Two burly-looking men came up with a length of rope, intending to tie them off. With violent force they tried to jerk them apart, but Lovino gave a sharp cry and refused to let go.

"Damn bitch," one of the men growled as he tried to pry the Italian's fingers from Gilbert's now tear-soaked shirt. "Won't let go."

Gilbert pulled Lovino to him, and for a moment, the Italian ceased crying and just hiccuped. "Nein, he stays with me." When they all looked at him quizzically, he elaborated: "He's got some… mental disabilities."

Lovino broke in his sobbing to land a hard punch to Gilbert's ribs that caught him off guard. He coughed a little, turning it into a laugh. "Little guy can't be parted from me, see?" Gilbert laughed breathlessly.

The men gave each other suspicious looks, but shrugged and tied them both together. When one man was tightening the knot and looking absentmindedly at the other, chatting quietly, Gilbert slyly slipped in a finger.

"All right," huffed the man. "Ya know where to take 'em." Then he turned to them both and smiled wickedly. "We'll ensure ya have a… comfortable journey."

Gilbert had to suppress the urge to kick the man straight in his potatoes and instead forced a smile. "Thank you. Thanks very much, sir." The 'sir' part was hard to manage and he ended up squeaking it out in effort to hide his rage.

"Off ya go, then. We'll make sure to get the word to your buddies about our deal."

The crowd parted to make way for them, Lovino being forced to walk beside Gilbert, now in hysterics.

Did he really believe that Gilbert would just give up like that? This was just tactics… and being a rather war-fond ex-nation, the albino knew all the tricks and sweet-talk he would need to catch the mob by surprise.

When they were nearly at the end of the mob and the way was clear, Gilbert turned to those guiding him and said, "I'll just try to explain what we're doing." And he bent down to talk to Lovino.

The Italian looked a right mess. His face was pale so that his puffy red eyes stood out immensely. His nose was running ( _Great, now I have the shit all over my shirt…_ ) and tears were rolling down his face every time he blinked.

"Romano," Gilbert whispered, but Lovino was crying too hard to hear. "Romano!" he hissed louder, and finally the Italian peered up at him with wide, green eyes. It took a moment for Gilbert to find his words, for Lovino's gaze was like a child's looking to an adult for help. "Listen to me, okay? I think I can untie us."

" _Think_ ," It was more a squeak than a question.

"All right, I _know._ " Gilbert sighed, then continued, "But I need you to run as soon as I do."

"Where?" It was a wonder the man was still in a comprehensible state.

"I'll punch a few guys out so that you can get back to the truck. But I need you to be ready… and fast, okay?"

"… si…"

"Don't be scared now, ja?"

Lovino whimpered and dug his fingers deeper into the folds of his shirt, shaking his head.

Gilbert wished he could offer more encouragement, but his hands were tied, so he settled for pressing closer to the frightened Italian. "There's no need to be scared. I'll do all the work. All you have to do is run. I'm too awesome to get caught, so don't worry about me."

Lovino looked up at him again, giving him an eat-shit look that clearly said 'I don't care if your sorry ass is caught', but Gilbert took it as a 'yes.'

It took a moment, for Lovino to let go of him, almost as if he was hesitant to leave him, which wasn't very surprising seeing as Gilbert was his only source of protection. As soon as he did, though, Gilbert wriggled his thumb through the knot, and the ropes tumbled off of them to form a useless pile at their feet.

The crowd seemed to stop breathing for a moment in which Gilbert muttered, "Run."

And Lovino did. Fast. Gilbert had to admit he was impressed by how quick the Italian could move.

Then again, he was scared for his life.

But there was no need. For as soon as Gilbert was free of the ropes, he punched the two guards behind him in the face, allowing Lovino a clear path to the truck. He watched him go, his gut twisting with anxiety, but he couldn't watch to see if Lovino made it to the truck for very long, as the two men behind him had recovered and were now cursing and brandishing their weapons at him menacingly.

"Shit-eating motherfucker!" one of the men growled, trying to staunch his bloody broken nose. "Now you've done it!"

"We'll kill you _and_ all your fuckin' friends!"

The boss stood off to the side, not involving himself in the fight that was erupting, but smiling in perverse amusement. "We tried to convince you through peaceful means. Now you'll die."

"Ha! Peaceful means?" Gilbert growled, kicking a charging man in the shin and punching his friend twice in the shoulder, dislocating it and toppling the man to the ground. "Since when did weapons pointed at newcomers signal a peaceful agreement?"

He turned to swipe at an oncoming attacker, striking him square in the chest. The man fell to the ground with a thud, and Gilbert yelped as he felt the scabs on his back rip open, hot blood trailing its way down his spine.

The distraction of his wounds was enough to get him a hefty knock to the shoulder. He stumbled back, regaining his balance and striking out at a couple more men, thoroughly bowling them over in his attempt to reach the truck. To his utter relief, Lovino had already clambered on, now clinging to Sadiq, the Turkish man trying his hardest to shake him off his arm.

Gilbert ran the short distance between him and the truck, guns going off behind him. Bullets whizzed by his head as he vaulted over the last few men in his way, knocking them down in the process, and leapt onto the truck.

The Prussian had barely secured himself on the truck, when Yao waved back at Arthur, yelling, "Go! Go! We got them!"

Immediately, the truck sped off, this time not swerving so sharply, bullets chinking off the tank and strips of scrap metal Sadiq had. Gilbert let out a rough "Oof!" as Lovino ducked some bullets and wrapped his arms around his waist, squeezing so tightly, Gilbert thought he would burst.

"Easy, Romano…" he muttered, trying to pry the Italian's vicelike hands off of him.

But it was a hopeless effort.

* * *

Translations:  


Qu'est-ce vous faisez?-What are you doing?

D'accord-Okay

Hé!-Hey!

Regardez-vous!-Look!

A Word From the Writer: Romano Mode=Locked. I don't think he'll be letting go of Prussia any time soon. I bet he would make a very stylish (if not bitchy) belt. _That's_ designer Italian leather, my friends. XD


	20. Against the Clock IV

**The hills have eyes... Maybe not literally, but pretty damn close.  
**

Warning: Angst, tension, suspense, innuendo... that's pretty much it.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

  
**Against the Clock IV**   


Ivan watched the scene below with intrigue. He recognized that pale complexion and those cocky movements anywhere.

"Is Prussia," he identified.

Alfred flinched and looked at him as if he had grown three heads. "How the fucking _hell_ do you see that?!"

Ivan smirked, not bothering to return Alfred's look. "Heh, I pay attention. Besides, are you not the one with glasses?"

Matthew's small and astonished voice floated to him from his place beside Alfred. "And is that… Romano?"

"What!" Feliciano's scream echoed as he rushed forward to look, Ludwig right behind him. As soon as he saw what was going on, he began crying. "No! Lovi!"

Ludwig peered around the Italian, his hold tightening on Feliciano. "Hmph, East. Of course. The dummkopf's finally got himself trapped."

"Ve! Will he g-get out of there, G-Germany?"

"I hope so, Italy."

Ivan scoffed, and they all flashed him scathing looks. "I wouldn't be surprised if he escaped. Bastard gave me the slip a few times when I had him. Actually sent me on the hunt for nearly two days once. Heh," Ivan chuckled. "But he never made it over the wall."

He thought he could hear Ludwig let out a growl, but Ivan ignored him.

"Holy shit!" Alfred said in disbelief. "They're tying them up!"

"Ve… what's Lovi doing?"

Ivan scoffed. "Crying, of course."

Alfred was about to flash an insult at Ivan, when Kiku came between them and muttered, "America-san, Russia-san, please don't argue. You will make it worse."

"He's right, Al." Matthew agreed when Alfred was about to retort. "Just leave it."

Alfred mumbled to himself irately, but said nothing, all of them now watching the action below with bated breath.

"They're taking them away!" Feliciano cried into Ludwig's shirt.

"Wait," Kiku said, squinting. "He placed his thumb in the knot."

Alfred flashed him a disbelieving look. "How can you s…?"

Kiku smiled. "You forget I have skills of a samurai."

Alfred snorted, and said nothing more.

Ivan watched with a blank expression. He was everything but concerned about Gilbert and Lovino's situation—if anything, he was more bored. It was about time something happened… like one of the fierce escapes he knew Gilbert was so good at.

Then, "He moved his thumb—the knot is loose." Kiku reported as if he had binoculars.

Alfred leaned forward, squinting as though he expected to see if he made his line of vision even narrower. Ivan snorted in amusement.

"Oh… look! He's got free… damn, and he's kicking _ass_." Not as good as Alfred himself of course, but still pretty damn impressive.

Ludwig scoffed. "Only because he's been so lazy ever since he became an ex-nation that he's reserved his strength…"

Feliciano straightened and sniffed before crying out, "Ve! Lovi is on the truck!"

"Of course he is," Alfred replied. "He ran fast enough."

Matthew flinched beside Alfred as gunshots rang out below them. "Shit… they've started shooting."

Ludwig stiffened. "Come on, bruder, actually _live up_ to your awesome ramblings…"

A few tense, silent moments passed before they all sighed in relief, the truck set trundling up toward the hills again, the mob being quickly outstripped by its speed.

"C'mon, Artie." Alfred mumbled, suddenly quite restless. Ivan watched with annoyance as he began to pace atop the crest of the hill. "Put the pedal to the metal, man."

"They're almost here." Matthew muttered. "You should go and prepare the fuel tank, Al."

"Yeah, right. I'll do that." Alfred said hesitantly, not taking his eyes off the truck as he turned, as if expecting something bad to happen when he wasn't watching.

"Hurry!" Matthew hissed, and Alfred gave him an insulted look before leaving.

Kiku sighed, not bothering to look at the Canadian. "You are on bad terms with him."

"I know." Matthew huffed, running a hand through his blond locks. "But I have no choice but to be firm with him at times, no matter how much he might hate me for it in the future. You know how he is."

Kiku nodded. "Yes. America-san can be stubborn—"—Ivan laughed at this… 'at times'?—"But it is important for you to make up. We do not know how long we may live these days."

Matthew bowed his head. "Yeah… I should probably appreciate his presence more, no matter how exceedingly annoying he is…"

"You lost Cuba, I've heard?"

Ivan pulled his attention from the truck to listen to Matthew and Kiku's conversation.

Matthew stiffened and felt his heart sink. "You've heard right, then. His country was one of the first to fall… you know, communist streak and all that. Thought he needed nobody's help in order to right himself. I tried to warn him, but…" Matthew's eyes grew wet and he felt a tingling sensation in his throat, as if a sob was wanting to escape. But the Canadian faked a cough to expel the feeling and blinked back his tears. "Carlos was a very firm man when it came to dealing with other countries who did not think the same as him, especially when it came to Al. If Alfred had ever known Carlos and I were dating, Cuba would have been but a big black spot on the face of the Earth, I can assure you." He laughed a bit in spite of himself. "But despite his faults, Carlos was a very good man… Alfred just never took the time to realize that."

He sniffed softly, and Kiku fell silent, allowing the Canadian time to cope with his grief and feeling guilty for even bringing it up.

Ivan thought back to when he last saw his sisters, and he felt his insides twist with suppressed sorrow. He had never really had time to mourn Katyusha and Natalya, as he had had to deal with his own country at the time. Now, he found whenever he thought of them, he felt sadder than he had felt in a long while. Sure Katyusha had left him for the EU and Natalya was completely terrifying, but he still missed them… therefore, he redirected his attention to the truck, which was currently making its way up the steep hill.

Finally, the truck heaved its way to the top of the hill and zoomed between them, stopping under the fuel tank. Arthur immediately jumped out, helping Alfred hook up the hose nozzle to the truck's tank. Francis then exited the truck himself in order to supervise the filling of the tank. Sadiq and Yao leapt off the back of the truck to stand at the ready on the crest of the hill while Gilbert joined his brother, Lovino still clinging to his arm.

"That was a close call there, East." Ludwig said with a smirk.

"Ve, Lovi!" Feliciano cried, hugging his brother who was still thoroughly attached to Gilbert.

"Get off of me, stupid bastard." Lovino growled, still in shock.

"Well," Gilbert said, chuckling. "At least we know he's still the same."

Ludwig pulled his hand from around his brother's shoulders and examined his fingers which were dripping with blood. "Uh… bruder, did your cuts reopen?"

Gilbert looked a bit embarrassed and scratched the back of his head. "Kesesese, I guess they did, then. But really… it's no big deal…"

Ludwig gave him a concerned look and was about to respond, when Kiku yelled, "They are at the base of the hill!"

"Everybody, back on the plane!" Arthur shouted from his place standing in the bed of the truck, straddling the hose. "And Russia, pop that damn slide!"

Ivan scowled, hating being ordered around but nonetheless walked over to said slide, produced his pickaxe from his coat and slashed at the slide, more violently than need be. Hell, he needed to take out his rage on _something_.

The slide deflated very fast for being so big—as Ivan had ripped the whole bottom out. Afterward, he shouted, "How the hell are we going to get back in, hm?"

"The cockpit ladder!" He was surprised when Alfred answered him. The American was clambering down the rungs of it, letting go a few feet up from the ground and landing on his feet. He gestured to the ladder. "C'mon, who's first?"

"You, obviously, idiot." Arthur said with annoyance. The Brit was now standing on the extendable ladder, flicking switches and pushing buttons on the fuel tank. "You're our pilot."

"I'm not getting in before Mattie."

Matthew sighed, slinging his gun back over his shoulder and walking toward the ladder, shaking his head. "Al, why do you always think I'm going to hurt myself when you're not looking after me? I made it all this way just fine."

Alfred shook his head. "No. I don't care if you scaled Everest and are still alive, you're getting in this plane and will stay there as long as we are on the ground and this mob is still around!"

Matthew flashed him an annoyed glare and commenced climbing the ladder into the cockpit. Alfred did not move until Matthew disappeared into the cockpit. Then he turned to Ludwig. "Pass over the Italy brothers. They've been through more danger than in their whole lives today."

Feliciano quickly clambered up the ladder along with Lovino, who looked as though he was being chased by a pack of wild dogs.

Alfred then eyed Kiku. "You next, Kik."

Kiku frowned at the nickname, but proceeded up into the cockpit.

"France?"

"I am afraid I cannot, mon ami. I am busy helping England at the moment~"

"Get the hell away from me, Frog! I don't need your help—and you're not doing anything anyway but staring at my bum!"

"Why must you be so cruel, amour? … Though you are partly correct with my current view, honhon~"

Alfred's eyes shifted to Turkey. "Turkey?"

Sadiq shook his head. "Not until the Chinese bastard does."

"What you call me, báichī?"

Alfred turned to Ludwig. "Germany?"

Ludwig sighed. "Ja, well, I guess I should see how the Italies are doing." And he began to clamber up the ladder, turning back and shouting, "East! Get your arsch over here!"

Gilbert looked defiantly at him. "I can help defend the truck, bruder! Surely you must have noticed my awesome display of strength down there on the runway?"

"Your back doesn't look like it could handle much more. Get up here, _now_."

And with that, Gilbert quickly made his way over to the ladder, climbing up with haste.

Ivan knew who was next, and he nearly laughed aloud when Alfred hesitated.

"Russia?"

Ivan turned to him, his creepy, childlike smile on his face. He just wanted to see Alfred's frightened reaction. "Da, Amerika?"

Alfred swallowed, but retained his stoic stance. "Y-you're next up the ladder."

Ivan considered for a moment. "Nyet, I think I will stay down here until they are done." He indicated Arthur and Francis.

Alfred growled with frustration. "Everyone has to get on. So… Turkey, China, why don't you both climb the ladder together?"

Yao scoffed. "So that Turkish bastard could jump down after I get in? No way in hell!"

Alfred sighed. "Fine then. But when that mob shows up and you're not on board, I'm leaving your sorry asses behind!" Fuming, he clambered up the ladder.

Ivan scoffed and rolled his eyes. Alfred was such a child, trying to control everything.

Meanwhile, Yao shouted, "They're at the base of hill!"

"Done!" Arthur declared, Francis helping him detach the nozzle, much to his displeasure. After he had recoiled the rope, he stood, hands on his hips and shouted, "No more of this nonsense! Everyone up that ladder in the next few minutes or you'll be a feast for the mob!"

Ivan did not like being ordered around, but he obeyed nonetheless, giving Arthur a don't-try-that-shit-with-me-again smile as he climbed. He thought he heard Arthur swallow and cough shakily before he entered the cockpit.

Alfred was sitting in the Captain's seat, his back to him, fiddling with the knobs and checking the controls and air pressure. Ivan knew Alfred heard him coming up, as the American had stiffened a bit, but he was utterly ignored. Ivan slid open the cockpit door and stepped into the cabin, taking up his usual seat by the window and examining the scene below.

Arthur looked as if he were ordering Francis to go up as well, but the Frenchman was refusing, his arms crossed. Exasperated, Arthur turned to Sadiq and Yao, both of whom were glaring at each other, no doubt daring the other to go up first to prove their cowardice. But Arthur eventually convinced them to go up the ladder. They both went up at the same time, watching each other closely to see if one of them would drop down at the last minute. But they made it all the way up without a snag… and looked grudgingly out of their windows when they took their seats.

Francis and Arthur argued for half a minute or so before Francis went up the ladder and Arthur followed after.

Once Francis found his seat and Arthur situated himself in the co-pilot chair, Arthur said rather loudly, "Right-o, lad. Ready for takeoff. And please be careful. I didn't just risk my neck for nothing."

" _We_ , amour!" Francis reminded.

"Shut up, Frog. He has to concentrate!"

"I suggest," Ivan cut in, observing the crowd below. They had just gathered on the crest of the hill, congregating around where the cockpit ladder had been pulled up. "we leave now."

"Okay, okay!" Alfred said, starting the engine and trundling across the length of the hill, which was quite big. "I'm goin', don't rush me!" Then the plane gave a little jerk followed by an amused muttering.

Arthur's anxious voice floated up from the cockpit. "I don't care if the cloud looked like a penis, Alfred, just focus on getting us into the air!"

Francis shifted in his seat a couple rows behind Ivan, mildly interested. "Good eye, amant! When this is over, we should go cloud-watching together."

"Shut it, Frog, or I'll punch out _both_ of your eyes! I'm sure it would do everyone else a favor!"

* * *

Translations:  


Dummkopf-Fool

Báichī-Idiot

Amant-Lover

A Word From the Writer: Alfred: Let's fly into the giant penis, Artie!

Arthur: That's bollocks!

Alfred: Uh, I'm pretty damn sure that's a penis, bro.

Oh I couldn't help including some sort of innuendo. That and I have seen a cloud in the shape of a penis before. With bollocks and everything! Next I'll be looking for one in the stars. I'll name the constellation "Arthur Kirkland" just so France can say he's seen England's dick. Oh would that Hetalia was real *sigh*

Ta for now!


	21. Canada in Charge! ... Who?

**Canada finally got his wish~!  
**

Warning: Swearing, tension, angst. I'm just a crazy fanfiction writer who keeps Pirate England locked in my closet.

Just in case you're wondering why Arthur _really_ gave up pirating…

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA.

* * *

**Canada in Charge! ... Who?  
**

"You could have chosen a less conspicuous spot!"

"I'm sorry, Igs, but there weren't many options available!"

Arthur sighed. They were getting nowhere. When they had flown over Yellowstone, Arthur expected there would be a multitude of places there may be to land… unfortunately, Alfred chose an open field near the beginning of the park as a runway strip.

"Well," Arthur growled, surveying his surroundings. There was nothing but trees for what looked like miles, and then a thin strip of mountain peeked above the treetops in the distance. "We're just going to have to get as far away from this place as possible."

Alfred pouted. "Aww, c'mon, Artie. We just got here and it wouldn't hurt if we made camp here for just one night?"

"No!" Arthur snapped. "It's too risky. Who knows how many people we've already attracted? For all we know they might have followed the plane."

"Ja," Ludwig agreed, gathering his belongings, Feliciano fluttering close by. "We need to get out of here as quick as possible." He threw his backpack strap over one arm and proceeded to the head of the group. "All right. Who here knows their way through a forest?"

There was a few moment's silence before Matthew hesitantly raised his hand. Now, instead of ignoring him like they usually did, he was acknowledged immediately.

"Come here, then."

Matthew did so, slightly uncomfortable under everyone's gazes.

"You, Canada, will lead us to a spot you find suitable and safe for the night. Let's head off." Ludwig said, nodding to him.

They all waited for Matthew to go. Matthew swallowed dryly and tried to ignore the fact that everyone was counting on him to survive now. He eventually straightened, rifle at the ready in his hands and said a bit more loudly than normal, "Okay, everyone. Follow me."

"Stop!"

Matthew was getting the hang of this. Everyone immediately stopped behind him, and he could hear guns cocking as if fearing they were being pursued. He knelt down, running his hand through the soil. He moved it around in his fingers for a moment before concluding, "It's moist. There's a source of water nearby. We can follow that." He stood, wiping off his hands on his jeans before saying, "All right. Water is a life-saving resource for us, but that also means that it is essential for other creatures. There may be many animals living around here, big and small, harmless and dangerous. So have your guns at the ready and be alert. Make sure to tell me if you see or hear anything suspicious. Let's continue."

He led them on until the soil began getting moister, eventually forming into mud. He faintly heard the trickle of a stream nearby. He carried on for a few more minutes, the sun now hanging low over the treetops. Satisfied, he stopped and turned. "Okay. We'll settle here for the night. Now before we do, there are a couple of things we must remember—wait." He'd just saw something out of the corner of his eye. He bent down, examining what he concluded to be animal droppings. He touched it and pulled it apart, revealing the bones of some large animal. Well… large enough to be prey for only one type of predator. It was warm. He wiped his hands on his pants and turned around to face them. His brother and Lovino had disgusted looks on their faces, but he ignored them.

"Well," he said. "It seems that this spot is already someone else's territory."

Lovino jumped, looking around warily. "Someone's following us? Where? The Syrup Bastard led us into a trap!"

"No!" Matthew shouted in his scary voice, making everyone jump. "No, Romano. No one's been following us. Not any human, anyway. It looks as if this territory belongs to a bear, and a rather hungry one at that. I'd say it was a grizzly and from the looks of things, it's rather small. Thank God we're in the territory of a youngling. If it were a full-grown male or a female with cubs, we could be in real trouble."

"So you led us into bear territory?" Gilbert asked, miffed.

"No," Matthew said slowly, as if talking to a child. "I led you into the forest, where it is going to be undoubtedly full of many animals. And as animals were here long before we were, they have probably established territories covering almost _all_ of this forest."

"Then… where will we sleep safely?" Feliciano asked, frightened.

Matthew took a few steps in every direction, sniffing before answering, "It doesn't smell as if the bear's marked any trees or scrub over here. That way," He indicated a clump of trees in the opposite way of the stream. "is our safest bet."

"But," Alfred asked. "What about the water?"

"We'll find a spot close enough to it, I promise. But I'd rather not have to cross through a bear's territory in order to reach it." And with that, he led them off into the trees.

Matthew stuck close to the stream, listening to hear if they were getting too far away from it or not. Finally, he stopped in a clearing by a small thicket and, after checking thoroughly this time, said, "Okay, then. This looks good enough. We'll stay here."

Everyone gave sighs of relief, exhausted after a couple hours of walking without rest through the thick underbrush. They started to unpack, laying out sleeping bags, weapons, and ammo.

"Well," Arthur said standing and rubbing his hands together to wipe off the dust. "This isn't so bad…"

"Says you." Alfred grumbled, now sitting on his sleeping bag. "Now we have to sort out how we're gonna get food and make a fire…"

"Since you're complaining, Al." Matthew snapped. "Why don't you go and collect some firewood?"

Alfred stared incredulously at him for a moment before getting up and starting off into the woods, grumbling irately under his breath. "Stay close to the camp!" Matthew called after him. "And make sure to pick out ones that aren't wet or fresh, they'll be much easier to burn!"

Alfred didn't say anything, didn't even turn around, flipping Matthew off before he disappeared into a clump of bushes.

Matthew sighed and shook his head before saying, "All right. Some ground rules must be set for your own safety. Never wander over a mile away from the camp. If you have food, give it to me to string up in the trees. Don't use your guns unless it's an emergency, we don't want to attract anything or anyone that may also be here in this part of the forest. When you're hunting, use my crossbow and please remember to retrieve all the arrows you use and bring them back to me for cleaning. Report to me before going out so that I can tell you whether where you're going is safe or not. We also need to establish water-collectors, firewood-collectors, hunters, and foragers. Again, anyone on any of those things _must_ report to me so that I can confirm that what you've retrieved is edible or usable. We will all take turns guarding the campsite—I suggest we do it in pairs in case some people get drowsy. Please try not to be loud. We don't want to attract anything. And if we do, please don't shoot unless it tries to attack you. If it's just sniffing around, fetch me and I'll try to scare it away. If all else fails and the animal returns the next day, we'll have to move camp. I don't want to take any risks here. And, oh, also remember that whenever you're going out somewhere to travel in pairs and take a flare with you."

"A flare?" Sadiq asked, embarrassed at not thinking to pack his own.

"Yes, a flare." Matthew said, trying not to look too pleased at the fact that everyone was looking at him with impressed expressions. "Just be sure not to light it off when you're in a dense, forested area—a clearing would do, or a field. But if you're in trouble or somehow can't get back, a flare is what you will use to alert us. There will be someone positioned in the camp as a guard and sky-watcher. They'll see your flare and notify me.

"Now… does anyone have any questions about what I've just said?"

"I do."

Matthew turned to see Alfred walking into the camp with a clump of sticks in his arms. He threw them down in the center of the clearing grouchily. "When're we gonna eat?"

* * *

Matthew had split the group up into firewood-collectors (Alfred and Francis), water-collectors (Gilbert and Lovino), hunters (Yao and Ivan), and foragers (Ludwig and Feliciano). The rest of the group, comprising of himself, Kiku, Sadiq, and Arthur all remained within the camp to keep watch and prepare the clearing for human habitation. Currently, Matthew was stringing up all the food in the camp in sacks he'd brought tied to tree branches, Kiku was digging a pit for a fire with a shell he'd brought with him, Sadiq was guarding the camp and watching the sky, and Arthur was…

Matthew blinked down at the man. "England, what _are_ you doing?"

Arthur paused, stick in hand, from drawing a circle around the entirety of the campsite, looking up with an innocent expression. "I'm making a Spirit Circle. This will keep all the bad entities out of the camp." When Matthew continued to stare at him in disbelief, Arthur, disgruntled, said, "Shall I continue?"

"Uh…" Matthew replied. "Yeah, yeah, go ahead." And he returned to his work. Surely it wouldn't harm them if Arthur doodled in the dirt…

 _Well,_ Matthew mused. _At least he's occupied._

"… away from me, bastard!"

Matthew nearly fell out of the tree he was sitting in as the angry voice boomed across the clearing.

A moment later, Lovino came stomping into the camp, fuming. Gilbert ran in after him, water slopping all over the ground from the canteens he was so carelessly holding.

"Aw, Romano, I was only having fun."

"Shut the fuck up, dammit!"

" _What_ ," Matthew slid down the trunk and walked toward them. "is going on here?" He was about to scold them for being loud, but examined Lovino first. "Uh, Romano… why are you all wet?"

Lovino folded his arms and scowled, pointing accusingly at Gilbert. "It was the Potato Bastard's fault! The fucker pushed me in the stream when I was getting water."

Matthew looked at Gilbert, miffed. " _Why_?"

Gilbert smiled, seemingly unaware of the trouble he was in. "Because I said I was so awesome I could swim the stream to the ocean! And then _he_ said I wasn't. So I said 'Are you jealous because you can't swim as good as I can?' and he said 'No' and then—"

"And then he fucking pushed me into the water!" Lovino growled.

Gilbert laughed. "He flailed like a fish! Kesesese!"

Matthew sighed. "Okay, there are two problems with this scenario. One: a stream can't lead all the way to the ocean, especially not in Montana. Two: what did I just tell you about being loud in this camp?" Now he was the one who was mad.

Lovino was red-faced. "Che, I'm pairing up with someone else. I'm tired of this bastard hanging around me like a gnat! For all I care, you can send him packing, because he's totally useless unless he's talking about himself, dammit!"

Matthew looked from Lovino to the laughing Gilbert and shook his head. "Nope. I'm sorry, Romano, but you're just going to have to cope."

"What?!"

"Yay, more fun for the awesome me, kesesese!"

"Because both you and Prussia aren't adept at foraging unless you're with someone like Germany—"

"Then let me go with the Potato Bastard!"

"And let both you _and_ Germany worry over your brother and get in a fight? No, I think not. And since Prussia's too loud for hunting and too cocky to go off looking for firewood, you two will just have to set aside your differences and work things out."

"What!"

"Kesesese!"

"Here's some advice." Matthew added, heading back to his tree. "Romano, ignore whatever Prussia says about himself or you or anybody else for that matter and just focus on getting water. Don't let him out of your sight at _all times_ , not even when you're getting water. And Prussia," Matthew turned to him, thinking for a moment before concluding, "You can deal with Romano's insults just fine. However, I know I can't convince you not to talk about yourself or play tricks on Romano or anybody else."

"You know it! Kesese!"

"But I _can_ warn you. If you cause a commotion in the camp like this again, I won't hesitate to punish you."

Gilbert laughed louder. "Punish me? Kesesese! Oh, that's rich! How, put me in time out?"

"No," Matthew said, his eyes narrowed. "But I _will_ arrange for Russia to carry it out. And I'm privy to new ideas any day. Whatever Russia has planned, I'm sure I'll agree to, violent or no."

With that, Gilbert clamped his mouth shut, his face going pale. Lovino smirked at his reaction.

Matthew looked at the canteens in Gilbert's arms and sighed. "Go collect some more water. You've slopped most of it around the camp and onto yourselves." Matthew climbed up the tree and perched in the branch he was sitting in before. "And if I hear you've caused trouble again, I won't hesitate to fetch Russia."

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Oh lordy, it's a camping _nightmare._ XD

Onward!


	22. Concerning Moths and Lanterns

**A new character shows up!  
**

Warning: Angst, tension, innuendo, and an OC.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Concerning Moths and Lanterns**

Ivan squatted in the brush, peering up at Yao from below. "Do you see anything, Yao-Yao?"

Yao shuddered at the disturbing nickname and whispered from the tree he was sitting in, "Yes, I see rabbit. To your left. In grass."

Ivan peered around the bush he was nestled behind and scanned his eyes across the area. Before long, he spotted the rabbit, sitting in a patch of grass, nibbling lazily. "Da, I see it. I'm taking aim." And he lifted the crossbow to his shoulder.

Just before he shot, though, Ivan sneezed, and the rabbit, alerted, hopped off into the brush.

"Дерьмо," Ivan swore, getting to his feet.

Yao jumped down from tree he was in. "You sneezed, Russia."

"I know, Yao-Yao." Ivan replied somewhat dangerously.

Yao shrunk back a little. "Maybe someone is talking about you?"

Ivan chuckled, making Yao back away a little more. "Da, but I have a feeling the only time I'm brought up in conversation is one in which something violent is involved…" His eyes drifted accusingly to Yao.

Yao stepped back so that he was a few feet away. "Uh… w-why don't we go to stream? We could catch fish there if try."

Ivan slung the crossbow over his back and said, "Da, that sounds good, Yao-Yao… You lead."

And Ivan laughed as Yao hesitantly took the lead, throwing fearful looks over his shoulder at him until they finally reached the water.

* * *

Ludwig picked his way through the foliage, bag in hand, already halfway full of berries. He hadn't heard from Feliciano for a while, and he looked back, worried he'd lost the bubble-headed Italian.

Then: "Germany! G-Germany! Where are you, Germany? You left me! Ve!"

"I'm right here, you idiot."

"Oh," Feliciano said as he popped out beside him. "Oh… hi Germany!"

Ludwig rolled his eyes, snatching Feliciano's sack of berries and peered inside. "What did you get?"

"Ummm…."

"Verdammt, Italy!" Ludwig chastised. "What did I tell you about eating the berries? This is supposed to be for the whole camp!"

"Ve~But they're yummy, Germany!"

"And I haven't checked to see if they're poisonous yet!"

"Berries will… _kill_ me?" Feliciano looked as if he was about to cry.

Ludwig sighed. "Ja, idiot, but you look like you're perfectly fine. Just let me check them next time, okay?"

"… Okay, Germany."

"Good," Ludwig replied, pointing over to a clump of bushes next to him. "You pick from those over there, I'll pick from here."

"Okey-dokey, Germany, sir!"

"Oy…"

After a few minutes, Ludwig collected all he could from his bush, and turned to see if Feliciano was done. "Italy, have you—? Mein Gott, Italy!"

Feliciano had been about to pop a red berry into his mouth before Ludwig seized his wrist and plucked the berry from his palm, examining it. He sighed. "Italy, do you know what this is?"

"Ve… A berry, Germany?"

"Ja," Ludwig said. "But this berry is poisonous. It's called a yew berry. So don't eat it and get rid of all you've picked."

"But… I've already put them in the bag, Germany…"

"Well, then pick them out! No one can eat those!"

Feliciano pouted, but eventually did as he was told. "I'm sorry, Germany. I didn't mean to hurt anybody."

"I know you didn't, Italy. But you have to remember to check with me before eating anything you find out here, okay?"

"Yes, sir, Germany, sir!"

"Mein Gott… what did I do to deserve this?"

* * *

Francis picked up a few sticks from the ground and balanced them in his arms as he carefully stepped over a rotting log. He grimaced. "I can't wait until we leave this place." Seriously. His hair was becoming a mess and the humidity the trees were holding in wasn't helping any.

Alfred scoffed somewhere nearby. "I doubt that. We've only just got here. As much as I wish the same thing…"

"Oh," said Francis, smirking. "So we have something in common, ami?"

Alfred appeared from behind a group of trees, arms full of wood. "Yeah, I guess."

Francis stepped closer to him. "So… have you— _gotten_ —anything in a while?"

Alfred looked curiously at him. "Whadaya mean?"

"I mean," said Francis stepping ever closer. "That maybe," step "we have more in common" step "than you may" step "think." By now he was brushing up against Alfred's shoulder leering. Alfred took a few paces away from him to pick up another stray stick.

"I still don't get what you mean, bro."

Francis sighed. Alfred had always been quite thick. "I _mean_ , amour." He stepped closer. "That I've been _very lonely_ since the Uprising, and I was wondering if perhaps we could _do something recreational_ here while we're all _alone_."

Alfred thought for a moment, then came to a sudden conclusion, exciting Francis. "But, man, I'm with you. You can't be _that_ lonely out here, can you?"

Francis sighed, exasperated. "I'm not with _you_ around, ami. But look around, the scene is perfect for a few private _activities_. It certainly is,"—his eyes darted to the rotting log and he scowled—"romantic, non?" Well, he _was_ desperate.

Alfred scoffed. "To you, but not to me. Jeez, you Frenchies and all your romantic ramblings all the time. When do you ever shut up about those things? If the forest looks good to you, then live here for crying out loud! I don't give a shit." And he started off back toward the camp. "C'mon, I can't hold much more."

Francis sighed, following him, feeling a bit crestfallen. "Well, there's still ten other people…" Then his mind floated to Ivan, shivering, and then he thought, "Non, only nine."

* * *

"A-a-achoo!"

"Bless you, Russia."

"Da, thank you, comrade." Ivan rubbed his nose with annoyance as he entered the camp with Yao beside him. "Why is everyone seeming to be thinking about me today?"

 _Maybe because they're scared of having to sleep in the forest with you…?_ Yao wanted to say, but bit his lip as he caught Ivan's glare, just daring him to answer.

Matthew immediately rushed up to them as soon as they arrived. "Did you catch anything, guys? Alfred and Francis got back with the firewood, so we're ready to cook anything you've got."

Yao raised a string of fish. Matthew smiled, then frowned. "My crossbow didn't work for you, it seems?"

"Nyet," Ivan replied. "I seem to be sneezing a lot lately and don't know why." Then he addd in a deadly whisper, "You haven't been talking about me behind my back, have you, comrade Matvey?"

Recalling what he had said earlier about Ivan, Matthew laughed nervously and answered, "Of course not, Russia, what would make you think that? I'm perfectly fine having you in this camp. Delighted! Ahahaha…" _Oh, maple, please don't kill me. People are just starting to notice me…_

Ivan gave him a long look before his eyes darted to Arthur. "What is comrade England doing, hm?"

"Uh…"

Arthur was currently seated on the ground by his completed circle, another smaller circle sitting right in front of him. He was wearing a dark cloak with the hood drawn up he must have gotten out of his bag when Matthew wasn't looking. Runes were drawn around the smaller circle, and the Briton was muttering furiously under his breath in some language Matthew had never heard of in his life, gently touching his fingers to each rune on the same weird word he uttered in turn.

"I really don't know… something about warding away evil spirits?"

Ivan raised an eyebrow. "Oh… interesting. Does he notice anything going on around him when he's doing that?" Something sinister glinted in Ivan's violet eyes.

Matthew stiffened. "I wouldn't interrupt him…"

"Hey, Igs, whatcha doing?" Alfred's loud voice echoed across the clearing.

He was standing over Arthur, nosily looking at what he was doing. Arthur turned to him, hood flying off, and growled, "Dammit, America! Why must you always interfere with my spells? Now you've disrupted the spiritual pressure (Haha, Bleach fan) and I have to start the cycle all over again!" He muttered angrily under his breath as he returned to his runes, leaving Alfred to stare with surprise at him.

"England-san," Kiku said suddenly as he stoked the flames of the fire. "is very strange indeed. Did I ever tell you what happened when he came to visit me and used my bath?"

* * *

Night was upon them, but the fire brightened the campsite and no one was tired, surprisingly. In fact, most of them were either too scared (thinking of Ivan or the wilderness) or too excited to sleep. They were all situated in a circle around the fire (within the outer circle Arthur had drawn, as Arthur had been very adamant about that) on their sleeping bags and talking casually as if this was just another world meeting but without the formal and boring atmosphere.

"So, okay, I've got one." said Alfred eagerly as his turn came around. "So these three nuns have to walk by this one apartment every morning to get to their monstrosity…"

" _Monastery_ , git." Arthur corrected stuffily.

"Right, right," Alfred went on. "So they walked past this apartment everyday, but the problem was, there was a random parrot sitting on a perch that the manager owned, and every time they walked past, it shouted three random colors at them. One day they walked past it, it said, "Red, white, blue!"…"

Ivan rolled his eyes at the reference, and Alfred went on, "Then one of the nuns, okay, she had this wild idea. She said, 'Well, maybe it's saying what the color of our underwear is?' Dirty nun to suspect that, eh? Well, they checked and confirmed it. Then she said, "Let's wear the same color underwear tomorrow and see what happens" so they did: black. And the parrot said, "Black, black, black!" and the nuns were outraged of course, because they're, well, women of the clause…"

" _Cloth_ , you dunderhead."

Alfred waved him down and Arthur scowled. "Whatever, Igs. So, anyway, the one nun was like, 'Why don't we try wearing no underwear and see what happens? That parrot will be fooled, then!' So they wore no underwear the next day and walked past the parrot…"

"I like where this is going, ami."

"Shut it, frog."

"So they walked past the parrot and the one nun was smiling to herself thinking _'What a stupid bird!'_ when, all of a sudden, the parrot squawked out after a moment of examination, "Straight, straight, curly!"…"

A second or so passed before the whole group burst out laughing. Well, all except Feliciano, of course.

"Ve, what is it? What's so funny?"

Gilbert began, "Well, you see the parrot said what each nun's—"

"If you tell him, bastard, I will kill you in your sleep." Lovino growled.

Meanwhile, Francis leered. "I like that one, ami. I'll be sure to remember it." Then he straightened. "Now, for one of my own. So this woman works at a sperm bank—"

"We don't want to know!" everyone called.

Francis slouched a bit, looking slightly offended. "Well, I assure you, you're missing a good laugh."

After a silent moment, Alfred rose from his sleeping bag, stretching. "Well, I gotta take a leak. I'll be right back."

"Thanks for telling us…" Arthur deadpanned.

Alfred went over to Matthew's backpack and searched through it. Matthew watched him with confusion. "Uh, Al? What are you doing going through my stuff? Didn't I tell you a long time ago it's not nice to do that?" He should have known Alfred still have a nosy streak in him. He did tend to piss off other countries with it often enough.

Alfred scoffed. "I'm not going through your stuff… but I do _notice_ you have a picture of Cuba in here…" His voice turned threatening. Before Matthew could counter his claim, Alfred stood up and said, "Nah, I'm just taking a flare. It's dark and, ya never know, I could need help, or get lost, or be eaten by a wild animal, or be dragged away by some beast…"

Arthur sighed. "Alfred, how long has it been since you last watched a scary movie?"

"A couple of weeks… I was bored, all right?" he added when Arthur stared at him in disbelief. "I was shut in my house for nearly a month, so I went through my movie collection…"

Matthew sighed. "All right, Al. But don't be long. And be careful with that flare!" he said as his brother trundled warily off into the shadowed woods. "If it goes off, it'll attract all that is out there for miles like moths to a lantern!"

"I get it, I get it, bro, sheesh!"

And he was gone.

"Well," said Ivan, looking a trifle happier. "At least we don't have to listen to him for a while."

"Yeah," Arthur agreed, feeling weird that he was in accordance with Ivan of all people. "You'd think that after I raised him he'd be a little less rude and a little more tactful."

"A little?" Francis laughed, recalling his hard time in the forest with Alfred that day.

Matthew huffed. "It's not polite to talk about people behind their backs. Russia would certainly know." At this, Ivan gave a warning growl, and Matthew quickly went on, "A-and don't talk about how rude he is when you're being rude yourselves. I mean, honestly, with England raising him, he wouldn't have turned out any other way…"

Arthur looked affronted. "Really? And what are you implying? That I wasn't a good brother?" There was hurt in his voice.

"No…" Matthew said. "But if you raise someone so strictly, then they tend to rebel. As you learned, England. I'm not saying that you aren't a good teacher, I mean, your own charge outgrew you."

Arthur frowned, his lips drawn on in a thin line. "Go on."

Matthew continued almost warily. "Well, I mean, just look at his middle name."

Arthur shifted on his sleeping bag. "What is it? He never told me. He got it after his revolution."

Matthew was about to answer, when a shot pierced the air. It was followed by a red flash, shooting through the sky like a rocket.

"Al!" Matthew shouted, and as if he heard his name amongst all the noise, Alfred came charging through the trees, stopping in front of them, smiling broadly.

Matthew rushed up to him. "Alfred, what the hell did you do?!"

Alfred's smile grew even wider. "I lit the flare."

Arthur shouted incredulously, "America, you idiot! Why?"

"Everyone will know where we are for _miles_!" Lovino groaned.

" _Be silent_!"

Everyone stopped yelling and looked at Ivan fearfully. Ivan turned toward the trees. "I hear something… something's coming."

"Ve! Germany!" Feliciano began to sob into Ludwig's shirt.

The sound drew nearer, the sound of footsteps. Everyone raised their guns, but Alfred shouted, "No! Don't shoot! We have to see what it is first, remember?" He flashed an oddly excited look at Matthew and everyone glared at the Canadian in turn. _Oh great._ Matthew thought. _Alfred found a loophole… probably for the only time in his life._

After a bit of rustling leaves, a figure darted into the clearing.

Then it stepped into the firelight.

It was a rather short girl, who looked to be about fifteen. She had dusky brown hair that fell to her shoulders, ending in little waves at the bottom. She had brown eyes and freckles, and was carrying a deer rifle. She looked around, her eyes wide and terrified.

"H-hello… I'm looking for my dad…"

* * *

Translations:

Дерьмо-Damn

A Word From the Writer: Yup. I told you I made up profiles about the states. What, you don't think I did all fifty? That's called patience and research, my friends... I'm currently drawing them.

Good evening, my lovelies, and remember

RUSSIA KNOWS WHAT YOU'RE THINKING.

Sweet dreams. ;)


	23. The Huntress

**Yay for an OC!  
**

Warning: Usual angst and tension, especially between America and Russia.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**The Huntress**

"H-hello… I'm looking for my dad…"

Everyone stood there, too shocked to do anymore then stare.

The girl straightened, and asked again, "D-does anybody know my dad? His name is—"

Alfred pushed his way through the other nations toward her. "Moriah!"

"Dad?" the girl smiled and ran toward Alfred, throwing her arms around his waist. "Dad… I-I can't believe I found you…"

"Moriah," Alfred hugged her tightly to him. "I've been feeling your presence for hours, but I couldn't think of anything to get your attention…"

"Well," said Moriah, pulling herself away from Alfred and looking at him lovingly. "I knew it had to be you. Who else would be stupid enough to light off a flare in these times?"

Arthur cleared his throat loudly. "Er… do you mind explaining yourself, America?"

Alfred and Moriah turned to address them. "Yeah… this is my daughter Moriah, though you may know her better as Montana."

"Well," said Moriah, scratching the back of her head nervously. "I don't suppose you'd really _know_ me. You've probably heard of me, though. I'm a bit… withdrawn. Aheheheh…"

Matthew came forward, his eyes alight. "I know you! Remember me?"

Moriah studied him for a second. "Oh, yeah! You're Canada—er, Mattie! You took me out hunting a few times long ago."

Matthew stepped forward and gave her a one-armed hug. "Yeah, I remember too. You were really young… about eight, in fact. Well, _looked_ eight. That was the day you shot your first buck. Right in the head, too!"

"I know," Moriah replied, flashing a mischievous look at Alfred. "Dad was so scared I'd hurt myself."

Alfred snapped, "I didn't know you'd went _that_ far into the woods. What if you'd gotten hurt?"

Matthew scoffed. "Deer tend to live deeper in the woods than you may think, Al, plus," He gave Moriah a proud look. "You're a great shot."

"Moriah," Alfred began, but Moriah held up a hand.

"Please, Dad, again don't call me Moriah."

"Why? I named you!"

"Only because the first two letters corresponded with my state name. You named all your states that way."

"Only so I could remember them! Jeez, there're fifty of you, gimme a break!"

"Well," said Moriah huffily. "I don't like the name."

Alfred looked a tad hurt. "But… I thought it was a beautiful name. I thought it would suit the beautiful scenery you have."

"Well, then you obviously don't know me."

Alfred's face fell. "How could you say that? I raised you."

Arthur sighed. "Now you know what I went through with you, America."

"What?"

"You wanted to be yourself. That's why you had your revolution. And that's also why you gave yourself a middle name." Arthur swallowed dryly. "Obviously… _Montana_ wants to come into herself also."

Alfred turned quickly to her. "Does that mean you want to separate from me?"

Moriah laughed. "No, no! Never! I could never leave you, Dad. I love you."

Alfred smiled. "I love you too, Montie."

"But if you loved me," Moriah said carefully. "you would call me Marge."

Alfred wrinkled his nose. "Marge? Why?"

"It's short for Marjorie." Marge said. "And I think it suits me better than some prissy name that sounds like it should belong to some rich actress or singer. You see," Marge cocked her rifle. "I'm a huntress. And I don't think people would take me seriously if they called me Moriah."

"So, _Marge_ ," Matthew cut in, his eyes now darting from tree-to-tree. "Do you happen to have a safe place to stay around here? It might be that Al's decision to shoot off the flare has attracted more attention than just your own."

"Da," Ivan added, and Alfred frowned, as if he didn't want his rival's voice to tarnish the moment. "I can hear something big moving toward us."

Matthew nodded. "Yeah, that's what's worrying me."

Alfred's frown deepened. "How the hell do you _hear_ that?!"

"Never mind that." Arthur turned to Marge. "Is there a place? Where did you come from?"

Marge pointed toward the trees from which she came. "Just north, not a mile. As I said earlier, I felt Dad's presence and came rushing over here. I might have attracted something on the way also. I must say I wasn't as careful as I usually am."

Suddenly, Lovino rushed forward. "Take us there, then, dammit! We'll die out here if we stay much longer!"

Alfred growled. "Don't yell at my daughter, asshole."

"What did you just call me, bastard?"

Francis pushed Lovino back a little. "Please, Romano. Don't worsen the situation."

"Don't touch me, wine bastard!"

"Please don't yell, brother!" Feliciano sniffed, threatening to cry.

Ludwig quickly tried to calm him. "Shh, shh, Veneziano, you'll attract something else…"

At this, Feliciano broke out into even louder sobs.

Gilbert glared at his brother. "Look at what you did, West! Now we'll attract everything from miles around!"

Lovino snarled. "Don't you blame my brother, bastard!"

" _He's_ the one starting it, Totally Unawesome Tomato-Eater!"

"Che, you still suck ass at making insults, potato bastard."

"Yeah, well you're not as awesome as—"

"QUIET!"

It was, surprisingly, Matthew. Beside him, Alfred shrunk back significantly. "Toldja he's scary when he's angry."

"Now," said Matthew calmly, his tone still biting. "While we're traveling it is essential that we remain _completely and utterly silent_." He eyed the Italies at this and Gilbert. "Or else that thing may turn tail and decide to track us. So let's pack up our stuff. And again, I implore _quietly_. And we'll follow Marge back to her campsite. Al," He turned to his brother. "Douse the fire. I'll get the food from the trees." And he set off.

Without much ado, the others packed their things quickly. Smoke issued in great, wafting amounts from the fire when Alfred threw water on it. At this, Matthew hissed from his place in the tree, now unhooking supplies, "Dammit, Alfred! _Stamp_ on it next time!"

Alfred tried to blow the smoke away by taking off his bomber jacket and waving at it, but that only managed to get the smoke to spiral higher into the sky. Then, Ivan came out of nowhere, scaring the living shit out of Alfred, as he stepped up from behind him, snatched the jacket out of Alfred's hands, and threw it down onto the heap of charred sticks and ashes. Alfred glared at him, but Ivan only smiled and said, "It helped, da?" and left to finish packing up his own things.

Meanwhile, Marge, who had been watching, walked over to pluck Alfred's jacket out of the smoldering fire, brushing it off and handing it to him. She was trying to hold down a smile, but it was obvious nonetheless.

"Thanks, Montie. That asshole…" Alfred grumbled, throwing on his dusty, ash-smeared jacket.

Marge let out a small laugh. "You can't say it wasn't your fault. _You_ caused the mess up with the fire, so it should be _your_ jacket that should be used to put it out. Besides," she added, casting a glance at the Russian, who was now standing with his back to them, gazing up at the night sky. "he was just doing what you should have done."

"Yeah, yeah, whatever." Alfred muttered irately, refusing to believe the fact that anything Ivan did was helpful in any way to him. "He's still an asshole."

Marge shook her head. "Oh, you really are hopeless. Maybe you should just let go of your rivalry with him. Forgive and forget, right? England and France have done it."

They both surveyed said countries, who were currently squabbling over something that concerned Francis ogling at Arthur's ass. They both then looked at each other again.

"Well," Marge said, shrugging. "At least it's less hostile than you and Russia. I mean, they didn't try to blow each other up."

"You don't need to remind me." said Alfred grudgingly. "But they damn near should have. No doubt if nukes had been created back then, one of them wouldn't be here right now."

Marge sighed exasperatedly. "Please don't make this difficult."

Sadiq, who had already packed, was standing watch, eyes scanning the trees. Yao was talking to Kiku from his place on watch too, not wanting to be outdone by Sadiq, but Kiku didn't appear to be listening. Instead, the man was scanning the skies as Ivan was also doing at the moment.

Meanwhile, Arthur and Francis had stopped bickering, and moved to opposite sides of the clearing. Francis was assisting Matthew by catching the supplies that were dropped down to him while Arthur was scuffing out his spirit circle, muttering under his breath as he did so, his eyes closed, his large eyebrows drawn together in concentration.

Ludwig was helping Feliciano pack, but the Italian was proving to be a handful. He was currently darting around the clearing, sticking multiple white flags around it at intervals. Gilbert, who had already packed his belongings, was annoyingly pacing in a circle around the still-fuming Lovino, bragging, the Italian occasionally pausing in his packing to snap at him.

Kiku broke his stargazing to appear at Alfred's side without warning. Alfred started, holding in a yelp as he hissed, "Jesus, Kik. Don't do that!"

"Sorry," Kiku said, his eyes floating up to the sky once more. "The moon has moved. We have lingered too long here."

"Wha?" Alfred peered up at the sky, squinting, as if trying to make out an obvious shape in the stars. "I don't see anything."

Kiku tried to quell his frustrated sigh. Alfred tended to be thick.

"Da, let's go."

Alfred did yelp this time. Matthew scurried down the tree trunk and shushed him with a glare. Alfred stared at Ivan who had, like Kiku, appeared from nowhere. Although, unlike Kiku, who still retained traces of strong samurai skills, there was no explanation as to why Ivan was so fast and quiet.

Alfred frowned. "We'll go when we're ready. But you could go right now if you want. I'm sure everyone would be glad."

At this, Ivan smiled creepily. Alfred shrunk back and Matthew called across the clearing "Al, please!" and the Russian said, "Da, I am sure of that. But then no one would know where I might turn up. Maybe when you are sleeping? I am not the person you want to be enemies with, Amerika. And I know you already were before," added Ivan when Alfred opened his mouth to protest. "But consider this: As far as I'm concerned, my country is dead. What is left of Mother Russia is gone. And I'm willing to accept that, even if it means I will no longer be a nation, even if it means the death of me. Now, though, I have nothing to lose. So, hurting any one of you wouldn't be a problem with me. I know I'll soon die anyway." He smiled at everyone, and a noticeable shiver raced through the crowd. "If I do kill you, I'll just see it as sparing you pain and suffering." His eyes darted to Marge, who was now shaking. "Do not be scared, little one. I'm sure you know death is inevitable?"

Alfred grabbed Marge, coming within a few feet of Ivan, not blinking, scowling. "You will always and forever be a heartless bastard to me, no matter if the world ends or not. But let's get one thing straight. You can hurt me. You can hurt my traditions. You can hurt my country. But you _will not_ hurt my states, no matter how much you have left to lose. Got that?"

Ivan's smile turned into a frown. "Provocation, it seems, is still your specialty, Amerika. Have you ever wondered how you have acquired so many enemies? And yet you were surprised when the twin towers fell. It's really pitiful, how ignorant you are."

Alfred's face turned from warning, to murderous in a millisecond. Even Arthur stopped in his muttering to turn around, assess the situation, and rush forward, saying, "Alfred, you idiot. Not this again."

"Don't you _dare_ bring that up, you worthless sonofbitch."

"Daddy, don't. You'll make it worse." Marge tried to pull Alfred away, but he wouldn't budge, wouldn't blink, determined to wait Ivan out.

Ivan scoffed. "Doesn't he always?"

"Russia, America, stop this at once." Arthur said, willing himself not to shrink back when Ivan flashed him a glare. "You're so selfish, both of you. Honestly, you want to fight _now_ , when all of us are in danger?" Arthur scoffed, pulling down the hood of the cloak he was wearing. "It's just like the Cold War all over again. You didn't care who you killed, as long as you settled your vendettas."

Alfred stared at Ivan a little while more, Ivan staring back with the same amount of malice. Then the American turned away, grabbing his daughter firmly by the wrist and leading her toward the trees. "You're right, Igs. Sorry. Now, let's get the fuck out of here…"

"Um, Dad, it's _that_ way."

"Oh, right. I knew that."

* * *

They traipsed through the forest for around an hour, before Marge had led them to a camp with a single tent and a snuffed fire.

"Well," she said, spreading her arms. "Here we are."

Alfred followed her into the camp, looking around in empathy. "And you've been living alone here this whole time?"

Marge shook her head. "No. Not this _whole_ time. I did have the Dakotas camping with me, but then we were attacked and became,"—her throat seemed to have closed a bit at this—"separated."

"Daniel and Dahlila were here?" Alfred asked, astonished and excited.

"Yeah," said Marge. "But I haven't heard from them since. Before I felt you in close proximity, I'd been searching around for them, hoping they had somehow escaped."

Alfred's face fell. "They were captured?"

Marge nodded, almost hesitantly. "Yeah… I was hoping you could tell me if you've… _felt_ anything?"

Arthur's brows drew together suspiciously as Alfred's hand subconsciously went to his chest. "No… no, I haven't felt anything since the Uprising began, except maybe a twinge here or there."

Arthur couldn't contain his curiosity. "Do you mind telling the rest of us what the hell you are talking about, or shall we be kept in the dark?"

Alfred turned to them and opened his mouth once, then closed it again, flashing at look at his daughter who nodded for him to continue. "I… I," he sighed and ran a hand through his hair, Nantucket jutting upward despite the disturbance. He then looked at Arthur. "Art, you've felt when certain areas of your country are… hurt?"

Arthur blinked, having a vague feeling where this was going. "Yes, of course. During the London fires, I was burned for a long time. And even now I'm sure everyone's feeling a tad weak since major monuments and areas have been ravaged or destroyed."

"Oui, ami," cut in Francis, and Arthur instantly frowned. "When my _Tour Eiffel_ went down, I felt sick for weeks."

"No one asked you, frog." Arthur snapped, then returned his attention to Alfred. "Go on,"

"Well…" Alfred said slowly, looking down at the ground. "Um, certain areas of my body are devoted to each of my states, and I can feel when they are hurt or in distress, or even when they're nearby. It's a perk, but it's kind of a hassle, such as the occurrence with New York. It felt like someone'd nearly slit my throat, and I couldn't talk for months."

"Oh, yes, I remember." Arthur said, thinking back to the time when Alfred had collapsed during the meeting, blood gathering in a pool beneath him. It was horrifying. "So that's what happened. I thought it was some freak accident. Something to do with attacking you as well as the towers."

Alfred flinched at the words. "Yeah, well, I haven't felt anything bad yet, so they all must just be in hiding."

He went over to poke the fire into life, and Marge motioned for the others to come into the clearing to set up their sleeping bags.

"Where did you get this tent at?" Lovino asked, eyeing it greedily.

"A cabin," Marge replied, and the Italian's eyes lit up hopefully. "But not mine. Just some emergency cabin placed at intervals around the park. I have some more tents and supplies back there, but for now we'll have to sleep here. You all look exhausted."

"Che, obviously." Lovino scoffed, and Marge frowned. Then, putting two fingers in her mouth, she whistled. Lovino looked up in alarm, just in time to see a large copper-colored dog tackle him to the ground. The Italian cursed and kicked and writhed on the ground as the dog sloppily licked his face.

Marge just stood beside him, watching with amusement and looking highly smug. "Oh, I forgot to tell you, Dad. I wasn't alone when the Dakotas left. I've had Ruby with me."

Alfred straightened and turned from laying out his sleeping bag adjacent to Marge's tent, and his eyes brightened immediately. "Hey! Hello, Ruby girl. You remember me? Huh?" He bent over and slapped his knees, beckoning the dog.

Immediately, the dog paused in its pursuit to completely cover Lovino in drool, and perked its ears, staring at Alfred a moment before launching itself out of the Italian's lap and racing to him. Alfred let out a jubilant laugh as she too toppled him to the ground, tail whipping violently through the air as she covered his face in licks.

Alfred laughed, trying to avoid Ruby's tongue. "I see she still likes to give kisses, doncha, girl?"

Francis smirked. " _I_ like to give kisses too, amo—"

"Shut it, frog." Arthur snapped, watching Alfred and Ruby wrestle on the ground, trying to hide his smile. "Alfred, what breed of dog is she? I've never seen one like her. Though from the build, I suspect she's a hunting dog?"

"Y-yeah," Alfred said, pushing the dog off of him and patting her on the head when she gave a few protesting whines. "She's a Coonhound."

"A _Redbone_ Coonhound." Marge corrected.

Arthur raised an eyebrow. "Coonhound, you say? I've never heard of it." He frowned. He hated to admit that he didn't know something, even if it just was a breed of dog.

Alfred smiled. "Well, that's the thing. Most people outside my country don't know about the breed. They're bred exclusively here. Well… I'd say mostly in the south. They tend to have a lot of swamps down there."

"Swamps?"

"Well," Alfred continued, gazing down at Ruby lovingly as she began pacing around him. "Ya see, when you, France, and all the other countries that first explored me came here—"

"Honhon, and I wouldn't mind exploring you _again_ , amour~"

"—they brought dogs with them." Alfred went on, ignoring Francis's comment, causing the other country to pout noticeably. "Hunting dogs, of course. But after my revolution, southerners discovered they needed heartier dogs, dogs that could take navigating their way through thick forested areas and could fight dangerous animals and survive if need be. So," He gave Ruby a scratch behind the ear as she sat loyally next to him. "They bred Bloodhounds with Irish Foxhounds to get the Coonhound."

"And she's called a Coonhound for a reason." Marge said, holding up the furry pelt of a raccoon by the tail. "Coonhounds can climb trees and even fight off alligators, mountain lions, and bears if need be. She's kept me very safe these past few weeks and helped me on the hunt. Haven't you, girl?"

Ruby barked happily in response, trotting over to sniff at her recently-skinned catch still held in Marge's hand.

Alfred frowned, casting a glance at Arthur. "You haven't heard of the book _Where the Red Fern Grows_? It has Coonhounds in it."

Arthur also frowned. "No, I don't believe I have. Though I must admit, I'm more into older works such as Shakespeare, John Locke, Charles Dickens…"

"I have,"

Alfred turned to Ivan, who had surprisingly answered. He stepped out from the shadows he had been standing in and eyed him evenly. "It was a good book. Though I must say, the accent in which it was written was quite annoying. But the dogs were loyal. And the book had a good plot, if one is into such things as hunting and country life. But the ending was sad… which I disliked." He paused, eyes rolling upward as he thought. "Ah… what were those dogs' names? I can't seem to remember."

"Old Dan and Little Ann." Marge had to reply for Alfred was too shocked to find his voice. "I didn't know you read books by American authors, Russia." There was obvious amusement in her eyes.

Ivan looked at her steadily before saying, "Of course I do. I read as a past time. I normally ask people or search the Internet to find good books. I've read books from many other countries as well. This one, however, just happened to be from America, and, having read the book, I wanted to show that I'd at least learned something. I've known of Coonhounds for a few years now. Although, I still think the Borzoi is a much better hunting dog."

Arthur blinked in understanding. "Oh… the Russian Wolfhound."

Alfred flashed his brother a glare. "How the hell do you know that?"

"I read." Arthur replied simply. "American literature, though, has lost its taste for me."

Alfred frowned and turned back to Ivan. "And what do _Bersers_ or whatever hunt exactly?"

Arthur sighed. Alfred wanted to be dominant in dog breeds also. Of course.

Ivan grinned. "Borzois hunt their namesake: wolves." At this, he saw Alfred's face fall, then added, "I have one at home. Though Sasha seemed to have disappeared a few months ago."

Alfred thought for a moment, then said, "So… she's big, is she?"

Ivan flashed him a malicious look that made him flinch. "Sasha is _male_. Unlike your country which has turned the noble name feminine, in my country it is still used as a form of Alexander."

Marge spoke up to spare her father further embarrassment: "Maybe after all this, we could get together and have a doggy playdate, huh?"

Ivan looked at her incredulously and Alfred muttered under his breath "Fat chance." And steered Ruby away from the Russian protectively.

"Okay!" Marge clapped her hands together loudly. "Enough dog talk. I understand you all have had a long plane ride? It's best to get as much sleep now as you can."

And with that, everyone laid down in their respective sleeping bags. Though everyone remained wide awake, even Marge, with the thought that Ivan was amongst them. Most were busily going through memories of bad things they had ever said or done to him, judging whether or not they may be the first to fall victim to his trusty pipe. All of them seemed worried, except for Lovino, who was still muttering grumpily under his breath about the whole Uprising even as the last nations drifted wearily off to sleep.

* * *

They all woke up early the next morning. Marge made sure to go around and shake everyone awake (though with Ivan, Alfred forbade her to do so, and tried kicking the Russian awake himself before shrieking when he was abruptly grabbed by the ankle as Ivan had been awake the whole time). Lovino they had trouble waking up, though many suspected the Italian was already awake but was going through one of his stubborn fits. Marge tried sending Ruby on him, but Lovino only rolled over and buried his face in his pillow to avoid receiving excessive amounts of slaver to the face. Eventually, Gilbert got impatient and tickled him awake, at which point Lovino did wake up (and rather pissed off at that) and the Prussian came away with a bloody lip.

"Heh, the bastard can hit when he's annoyed but not when he's in danger." Gilbert muttered to his brother, though Ludwig was only half-listening as he was currently trying to keep Feliciano from chasing a butterfly out of the camp. "I'll remember that."

"Okay, everyone!" Marge said cheerfully, throwing her backpack over her shoulder when everyone had packed, tent within it. "The cabin should be about a day away. I traveled only a short way out here to search for Danny and Dallie."

The rest of the day passed without much but small talk and they stopped every once in a while to snack on whatever they'd managed to bring with them in their packs. Arthur was still thinking about Marge and states she had mentioned. He was curious, but it was more out of a lack of conversation that he said, "I only knew the Thirteen personally, but I don't know your other state's names."

Alfred smiled. "Well, I have fifty, so I can't blame you for that. I even forget them sometimes, especially the twins."

Marge guffawed up front. "Ha! D'ya remember that time when you gave the wrong gifts to the Dakotas? That was hilarious!"

Alfred frowned. "I didn't know you still remembered that. You were younger than them at the time."

"Yes, but," Marge went on. "you remember something as funny as this for the rest of your life. So, okay, Dad thinks he's bought the perfect gifts, okay—"

"One was a set of toy soldiers and the other was a handmade doll." Alfred continued, catching the amused stare from Arthur. "And I didn't _sew_ the doll! I just… made the clothes…"

At this, Arthur and everyone within the vicinity burst out laughing. Alfred, rather pink in the face shouted, "All right! All right! You'd do it too if they were _your_ kids!" The doll had turned out to be pretty crappy and had scared his daughter at first, because Alfred absolutely sucked at sewing.

"Anyway," Marge went on, for Alfred was having trouble composing himself. "It was their birthday, so he gave them the gifts, names on them and everything… but he gave them to _the wrong person_!" She shrieked with laughter again.

When everyone followed suit, Alfred once again shouted, "You'd make the same mistake! They looked exactly the same! Clothes and haircuts and everything!"

Arthur finished laughing, wiping tears from his eyes and continued, "Now, back to my earlier question…"

Marge then turned around to face them, smiling wickedly. "Oh, wait, I haven't told you about the mistake he made with the Virginia twins."

Alfred rounded on her immediately. "I told you never to repeat that!" Then, without allowing her to say anything more, he answered Arthur, "Well, I'll name them in alphabetical order so that I won't have to repeat the states in order too. Just remember I named them all so that the first letters or so of their human names matched your state name. So… there's Allison, Alexei, Arielle, Aaron, Calvin—whoops, I mean Callie—Colton, Connor, Della, Dillon Cole, Flint, Georgiana, Halola, Ida, Illius, Ingrid, Ivan, Kailee, Kendrich, Louis, Maison, Martin, Malakai, Michael, Minerva, Misty, Moriah—oh, excuse me, _Marjorie_ —Nekolai, Nevaeh, Hamilton, Jeremy, Mercedes, Nathan Young, Caroline, Dahlila, Oscar, Olivia, Orion, Penelope, Roan Isaac, Carolyn, Daniel, Tennyson, Terax, Ulysses, Veronica, Victoria, Warren, Virgil, Willow, and Wynston."

"Damn," Yao muttered. "How you keep track of all them? I barely can with my o—" Yao's words had caught in his throat as he was reminded of those he had lost. Kiku moved to stand beside him, brushing up against him as he walked to let him know that he was there for him.

Gilbert snorted. "I would. I'm awesome like that."

Lovino gave him a scathing look, but before he could say anything, Ludwig snapped, "Be quiet, bruder."

Marge stopped to examine the sky. "It's getting dark. We should make camp."

Everyone muttered their assent—it had been two long days of travel for them on limited supplies of food and they were all more than ready for sleep.

Feliciano was fussing with his sleeping bag and Ludwig sighed, going over to help him. The Italian was unusually hyperactive, and said that he didn't want to go to sleep because he kept having nightmares.

Lovino, meanwhile, peered over at them for all the noise they were making, and frowned at Ludwig's presence. He was currently tucking Feliciano into his sleeping bag, much to Lovino's displeasure.

Eventually, the Italian grew tired of watching Ludwig struggle with his brother, and walked over, pushing the German away. "Get your wurst-diseased hands off him, bastard." And he commenced soothing Feliciano.

Sadiq, meanwhile, circled the camp once before sitting cross-legged on his sleeping bag, just about to settle down, when he caught sight of Yao, who was talking to Kiku, then sat rigidly upright. Kiku, meanwhile, was looking as though he could fall asleep just from Yao's droning voice.

Arthur was drawing a circle around the camp with a stick, then sat down to murmur in an ancient language, between sessions whispering, "I hope I'm not too late…" He had his cloak on and his hood up and sat alone on the outer edge of the camp. Francis dragged his sleeping bag over beside the still-muttering Arthur, contently watching him, the Briton none the wiser, too engrossed in his spell-weaving.

Gilbert laid out his sleeping bag (well away from Ivan) and sat down on it, taking out a knife and slipping it under his pillow, all the while watching Ivan, who eventually spotted him halfway through and glared pointedly at him. After that, Gilbert refused to slip into his sleeping bag, preferring instead to lie upon it (though rather hesitantly), facing Ivan's direction. Gilbert stared unblinkingly at him until Ivan's eyes met his, at which point, he looked away quickly, pretending to examine the stars.

Matthew was slipping into his sleeping bag next to Alfred's, determined to watch him carefully so that he couldn't wander off to do something totally stupid again. Ludwig tried to lay on his sleeping bag beside Feliciano (afraid the idiot would do something to hurt himself), but Lovino snapped at him, so he was forced to move beside his brother, still close enough to keep an eye on both Italians. Lovino placed himself between Ludwig and Feliciano, quieting his brother with a growl.

Marge was about to slip into her tent when she said, "Um… are you sure none of you would like to sleep in the tent? I could just sleep out here for tonight, it's not like I have been out in the open like you guys all the time I've been here. If anyone's sick—"

"No," Alfred said hastily before Lovino or Ludwig could say anything—Lovino for himself and Ludwig for Feliciano. "You have it, Montie. We can take one night out here before going to the cabin, I'm sure."

At this, he got many glares, but Alfred seemed oblivious to them as he settled down between his daughter's tent and Matthew.

They all dropped off gradually, Feliciano and Lovino among the first, shortly followed by Gilbert (who was loudly snoring). Ludwig fell asleep just before Yao and Sadiq settled into their sleeping bags at the same time, watching each other closely until they both became too tired to keep their eyes open and gave up their little competition to rest. Matthew assumed it fair to say that Alfred had fallen asleep, as his breathing had deepened, and turned over to drop off himself. Francis watched Arthur dreamily throughout his hour-long muttering, being forced into sleep soon after Arthur had turned around and uttered a yelp of surprise at his presence. The Brit then quickly relocated somewhere over by Matthew and fell asleep almost immediately, though he still continued to mutter in his sleep, as if something was still on his mind. The only ones left awake were Kiku and Ivan, though Kiku fell asleep watching the stars. Ivan too was watching the stars, wondering what would conspire within the next few days and if he would ever be home again and see Sasha and all the others he left behind. Shortly before deciding it was time to rest Ivan contemplated putting the spider that was then crawling beside him on Alfred, but settled with what he would be doing the next morning as being good enough, and fell into a light sleep.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Bleeeeeehh, my mind was elsewhere when I wrote this a million years ago. I dunno why I suddenly started mentioning dog breeds and books and whatevs. I guess the crack machine in my head started turning and I couldn't stop it!

Don't worry, though. This chapter was long because if I split it and posted it as two, you really wouldn't be getting much action out of it. The next one is longer, too. And it has action, yay!


	24. Scars

**Things heat up.  
**

Warning: Angst, tension, character deaths, death of certain famous figure, innuendo, and a dangerous situation.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Scars**

"Here we are!"

They all stopped in front of a small cabin.

"This is it?" Lovino asked incredulously, peeking around the side to see if there was another cabin attached to the one that stood before them.

Marge nodded. "I told you it wouldn't be much. But at least we'll be able to stay here for the night instead of sleeping outside. And it's a good thing too." She looked up to examine the slate-gray sky. "It looks like the sky's about to open up. C'mon." She pulled open the door and gestured for everyone to go inside before her.

"Ve~! It's so _cute_!"

"No, it's _small_ , damn idiot."

Marge hurried in after them, water droplets littering her shoulders and brown hair from the sprinkling rain outside. "Whoo! Looks like it'll be a thunderstorm."

"Great we got here then, huh?" Alfred examined the room. "So… this is where you stayed with Danny and Dally?"

Marge nodded. "Yeah. But the rebels never found this cabin. We were already a mile or so away when they attacked. Right, Ruby Red?" The dog sat obediently at her side and barked in agreement.

"Where will you sleep, Marge?" Alfred asked. "I'll set up by you."

"Oh, over here by the window, I guess." Marge said, indicating the rest of the room with her hand. "Well, go on, find a spot!"

The cabin really was small, consisting only of a small family room/bedroom and a kitchen. Along with Spam, there was jerky, MRE's, various canned foods, water bottles, toilet paper, and a radio.

"Sweet!" Alfred said as he pulled the old radio out of a dusty and cobwebbed cabinet. "Finally, we have some way to communicate."

"Ve~what's this?" Feliciano had pulled out an MRE.

Marge quickly reached over and snatched the brown plastic bag up. "Trust me, you don't want to know."

"Is it food?" asked Lovino, who now had his full attention on them.

Alfred answered for her. "No. It's certainly edible… if you can get around the shitty taste and texture. Just eat the Spam, trust me, it's way better." He tossed the can to them and Feliciano reluctantly obeyed.

"I'll go hunting tomorrow morning when the rain has subsided." Marge said, glancing at Matthew. "Mattie, you wanna come with me?"

Matthew pondered for a moment. "Hmm, have you seen any herds of deer in this area?"

"Yep,"

"Are there… _stags_ in the herds?"

"Definitely,"

"Well, count me in!" Matthew lay back on his sleeping bag, which was situated beside Alfred's. "Damn, I haven't shot a buck in a while. Even on my way to New York all I could find were rabbits and fish."

Marge frowned. "I thought Kumajirou would help you out with that. I'm not saying you're not an excellent hunter, you are, but that bear has a better nose than yours, don't you think?"

Matthew's face went from excited to saddened within seconds. "Yeah. He would have been dead useful now that I think about it."

"What happened to him, Mattie? I haven't seen him at all since you met me at that airport." Alfred asked, curious.

Matthew sat up and scratched the back of his head, looking at his lap where his polar bear should have been sitting. "Well… I lied to you. It wasn't just me who was heading for New York. Kumajirou was traveling with me, but we only just set out when we were attacked by some men camping out in the woods. Said they wanted our food. But I wasn't about to give them all I'd just packed. It was all I had, and I wasn't about to go into the city to get some more. Whatever was left, that is. So I shot past one of the man's ears too distract him and took off. I was hoping that at least one of them would be deaf so it would be harder to follow us. But they both charged after me anyway. Kumajirou was running along beside me and pretty soon they caught up with us. They were only a few yards away when they began firing. Of course, I couldn't. I was too scared to stop and turn around. I might get hit. Then I noticed Kumajirou wasn't running alongside me anymore. I stopped behind a tree and looked around and found out the men weren't chasing me anymore. They were standing beneath a tree and looking up. I looked up too and saw that Kuma had climbed up a tree. I yelled out for them to stop, but they shot him down out of the tree anyway. Then they turned on me. I had no choice but to run. So I ran and ran until I couldn't run anymore. I know they must have stopped chasing me hours before, but I wasn't about to stop and make sure." His throat became scratchy and he added, "They said they were going to eat him. Well… the damn bear didn't know who I was most of the time anyway, so I guess it shouldn't be too sad." He sniffed, but didn't cry. He wasn't going to.

Alfred bent down and put a hand on Matthew's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Mattie."

"Thanks, Al. But there's no need to be sorry. He would have eventually forgotten who I was and gotten lost anyway."

"What happened to Panda?" Gilbert asked Yao. "I always see you with that damn bear. Where is he?"

"Dead," said Yao, his voice indifferent, but his eyes hollow. "Shot. He was in my basket one moment, and next…" He shook his head. "Lots of blood." Then he looked up at Gilbert. "And where is Gilbird, Prussia?"

Gilbert shook his head. "I sent him to deliver a message to Roddy. He didn't return. I found out a couple of days later that Roderich and Eliza had been murdered and that they killed Gilbird to prevent him from delivering anymore messages."

Francis sighed. "That sounds like what happened to Pierre. Change the fact that I was trying to get in touch with Monaco and Luxembourg. Whoever killed them sent a bird back to me that told me they had shot Pierre. Thank Dieu they did, though. Or else I wouldn't have been alerted to the fact that they knew my location. I wasn't as careful with my letter as I should have been."

There was silence for a moment, then Arthur cleared his throat. "Er, why don't we have a listen at that radio?"

"Oh," Marge ran toward it, jumping over sleeping bags as she did so. "Here it is." She held it up to the fading light of the window, twiddling the knobs, only hearing static at first. Kiku, meanwhile, disappeared to the kitchen and brought out some canned food they could eat. They passed them around and were grateful that they could be easily accessed by pulled a tab. It wasn't much, but it was something. They all quieted when they heard a voice cut through the static.

"… have reported that D.C. has fallen. The governor has been found dead in his office, his death ruled by examiners as a suicide. The president is at the moment nowhere that we know of. But if we hear word of his current condition, we will tell you—"

"He's in Guam." Alfred muttered, as if reassuring himself that he was still alive.

"—immediately. Meanwhile, rebels have been wreaking havoc in the capital today. The sight of famous monuments toppling due to the constant hacking and vandalizing of the Resistance has been the view of those who have chosen to remain in the area. The said monuments destroyed are as follows: the Washington Monument, the Jefferson Memorial, the Lincoln Memorial, the World War II Memorial, the Capitol, the Supreme Court—"

Alfred winced as if hit. "Couldja please turn it to a different station? I don't want to hear anymore."

"Shh! Dad, we need to know what's left." Marge hissed, though it was evident that she was feeling the same way.

"—and various other memorials and monuments. The Smithsonian Museums have been ransacked and destroyed. The zoo, having been abandoned by employees, is dangerous to any citizen close to it. The animals, it has been reported, have escaped and are lingering around their enclosures but are getting reckless and desperate for food and it is predicted that they will soon take to the D.C. streets. Anyone close to the vicinity is advised to vacate their current residence and make for safer ground. The White House—"—Alfred gasped at this—"is under the protection of citizens still loyal to the old regime, but their numbers are dwindling. We assure all those wanting to help guard the house that the president has indeed vacated and we plead for all those still in the vicinity to leave immediately. The capital has been deemed dangerous and rebels have flocked from all over the country here to overthrow the government and kill all those who support it. Again, we advise all those still within the capital to leave and find a safe place to hide until this issue can be resolved."

Alfred laughed spitefully. "Like hell it will. Montie, turn the station, will ya? This is depressing."

Without saying a word, Marge twiddled the knobs again, her fingers shaking. Tears left wet trails on her cheeks.

There was static, wisps of voices, then: "… from all of us at the BBC, our hearts go out to those who still cling to the old government. Bless you."

Marge was about to turn the knob again, but Arthur lunged forward, snatching the radio from her. "No! Listen…"

Music sounded and a voice said, "Now for an update of the Uprising." The anchor's voice continued, "As you all well know by now, governments of the world are suffering violent revolts. We have therefore sent our remaining reporters to those major areas that are suffering most. We would like to once again to inform all who are tuning in that Downing Street is awash with rebels, but that the Prime Minister has been confirmed as safe in a secret location." Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. "Now, to Perkins reporting from London with breaking news. Perkins, can you hear me?"

There was static and then a meeker voice replied, "Yes, Michael, I can hear you loud and clear."

"Good. Tell us then what is happening in London at the moment."

"Well, from a hidden location I can see Buckingham Palace."

Arthur's breath hitched, and his grip tightened on the radio.

"The rebels have invaded the gardens and surrounded the Palace. The Royal Guards are down, I can't seem to see any that are still standing. Currently the rebels are attempting to break down the front doors."

The anchor was silent for a moment, then said, "Terrible! Perkins, you've been there for a few days now. What else have you seen? Was there any sight of the royal family?"

Arthur held his breath.

The reporter was silent for a long while before he choked out, obviously crying, "Y-yes, M-Michael. Yes, um… oh, goddamn them… ex-excuse me, Mike, I just can't seem…" There was a quivering sigh and a sniff.

Michael said almost hesitantly, "Yes, Perkins?"

There was another sniff before Perkins finally composed himself and said, "Yes, yes there has been activity. Yesterday the prince tried to send away the rebels from a balcony, but he was sh-shot down and… and h-h-hacked to p-p-pieces! I saw it all, the screaming, and the blood and everything. _Damn_ th-them!"

Arthur threw the radio halfway across the room in horror, as if trying to destroy it would make untrue the fact that one of his royal family was dead. He had known the prince since he was a baby, and to think that just a few months ago, they had enjoyed the birth of the prince's son. Now that son would never know his father…"Oh my God, no…" he breathed and anxiously unbuttoned his blood-stained shirt, not minding that, at the moment, everyone was staring at him. He pulled down the collar of his grubby undershirt and stared down at a place on his chest—a place where a long, deep gash was now raked just below his heart, the one he had disregarded earlier. He stared at it, refusing to believe it, refusing the confirmation. "No… no, no, no! No, I just thought… when it happened… it was just… that I'd just…" He gave a heaving sob as he realized the finality of what had just been said. "Oh, God! No! No, it-it can't be… that goddamned idiot!" Arthur turned from mourning to violent as he picked up anything within reach and began throwing it across the room. Everyone had to duck to avoid the flying objects: a canteen, a spoon, a sweater, the dream catcher. "What did he think he was g-going to accomplish? Fucking idiot! Why? Why did you do it? Why did you leave them? No! No!" His eyes burned and he was angry. Not only was he angry with the prince for throwing away his life so stupidly, but at himself, for letting himself lose control.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Francis lunged forward and wrapped his arms around the back of the anguished Briton, pulling him tightly to him and holding his arms so that he could not throw anything or thrash. Immediately, Arthur let out an angry sob and tried to wrench himself free, kicked and wriggled until they lay on their sides. "G-get off of me, FUCKING FROG!"

"Shh, be still, cher." Francis crooned, holding Arthur's arms more securely. "Be still, be still…"

Eventually, Arthur stopped thrashing, reduced to soft whimpers. He turned his face, hiding it in his sleeping bag. Francis, meanwhile, kept his arms wrapped around Arthur, murmuring comforting words into his ear. But the Brit only shook his head, letting a choked sob slip here and there.

Alfred wanted to say something, but the words were caught in his throat. He cast a worried glance toward Matthew to see that the Canadian was shaking his head, a tear rolling down his cheek. Alfred was about to ask what he was so worked up about, when he remembered that Matthew was very close to the family as well and quickly shut his mouth.

After a while, when Arthur's sobs had subsided and he just lay there and sniffing stuffily, surprisingly tolerant of Francis still holding him from behind, Kiku stood, crossed the room to where the radio had been thrown against the wall and said quietly, "I do not think we should listen to the radio anymore." And he walked over to the kitchen, turning the radio off and placing it in the dusty cabinet. He then calmly returned to his sleeping bag, gracefully stepping over those whose sleeping bags lay in between him and his destination, laying down and turning his back to them, muttering a soft, "Goodnight."

* * *

After that single utterance from Kiku, the rest decided that it was best to slip off to sleep. The rain pounded on the roof and window outside, creating a seductive lullaby that eventually soothed most of them into slumber. Arthur, too exhausted to fight, fell asleep in Francis's arms. Feliciano had taken some convincing, as he too had started crying, but Ludwig ordered him to sleep (much to Lovino's displeasure) and he did. The rest had dropped off shortly after that. The only ones who remained awake were Alfred, Kiku (he feigned sleeping until he could hear that all the rest of his group had fallen asleep), and Ivan.

All of them had important things on their minds. Alfred's was of what he heard today on the radio, not only of Arthur's country, but of his own. Would he ever be able to restore order? How could he when his capital was nearly destroyed? How long would it be until _his_ leader would be found dead somewhere, possibly also hacked to pieces, virtually unrecognizable?

Kiku's extended toward security. From what he heard today, it would be hard for any large group of people to get around unnoticed. He was trying to figure out ways to continue to conceal themselves without having to resort to living in the forest.

Ivan's mind stretched back to Russia, where his sisters lay dead in unmarked graves. When would he get back home? When would the world finally burn itself out and take it with him into the void from which new life sprang? He wanted it to be over, but he also wanted, now, for those who still clung to the old ways (as he had heard on the radio) to live, because he would do anything to help them. Sure, the old regime may be toppled, but that didn't mean he didn't care about the fate of his people. He had been wrong to think that he didn't matter anymore. It was hard to admit. But he needed to have faith in those still fighting—fighting for _him_. How could he have been so selfish? _Hmpf, not as selfish as Amerika, at least_. he mused as he drifted off to sleep, his arms folded, laying on his side, his ears still alert.

It seemed like he had been asleep for five minutes, before Ivan smelled something that made him sit bolt upright. He sniffed again, unsure of what he had smelled. Then his eyes rolled to the flash of orange light and heat coming from the kitchen.

"Пожар…" he muttered in disbelief. Then the realization hit him like a ton of bricks in the face. He stood, raising his voice. "Пожар! Fire! Fire!"

Kiku was already on his feet and rousing those next to him. "China-sama! Ludwig-san! Feliciano-chan!"

Arthur sat up when Ivan shook him. He peered groggily up at him, then his eyes widened at the sight of the bright red flames licking the walls just outside the kitchen. "Oh, shit!" He quickly got to his feet and looked around. Francis had crawled back over to his own sleeping bag and was just starting to wake up. "Get your arse moving, frogface, or it'll get burned!"

Francis got to his feet, casting a glance at the fire. "Merde, il ne peut pas être…"

Sadiq began to roll up his sleeping bag. "Don't just stare! Move!"

"Al?" Matthew was shaking his brother, but Alfred only shook off his hand and continued dozing on, not hearing or smelling a thing. The smoke was starting to get to him and panic seized him. "Dammit, Alfred, wake up! Wake up!"

Alfred finally rolled over. "Hmm, what? What's the big—?" He stared at the fire now moving to the ceiling. "Holy crap! When did that happen?"

"When you were so kindly ignoring my shouts." Ivan replied, hefting his backpack over his shoulder. He went to speak again, but his eyes suddenly burned and he coughed and couldn't catch his breath. Alfred and Matthew watched, horrified, as the Russian collapsed to the floor.

"Ru—Ivan, what the hell are you doing? We need to get the fuck out of here, man!" Alfred said, crawling over and shaking him.

Ivan caught him by the wrist and looked up at him. "I'm not finished yet, Alfred." Then he turned and shouted, "Everyone, get down on the floor! Do not breathe in the smoke!"

"Ve? Lu-Ludwig, I'm scared!"

"Hush, Feli, and get down!"

"Don't you tell my brother what to do, potato bastard!" There was a rough smack.

"You fucking dumbass!" came Gilbert's voice. "Why do you always have to start fights in the worst of situations. Come here, I'll help you."

But Lovino seemed frozen to the spot, watching the flames stretch out above them. "D-dammit… fuck…"

Gilbert huffed and pulled the Italian over to him. "Why do I always have to save your scrawny ass?"

Alfred suddenly sat up, frantically looking around. "Marge! Marge! Oh, my God! Baby, where are you? Answer me!" He felt around him, but her sleeping bag was no longer there.

Then Yao coughed and pointed, "L-look dumbass…"

The state had opened the door and was standing, a cloth over her face, eyes wet and burning as she beckoned them out. "Come on! Everybody out! It must have been the lightning from the storm! Move it!"

The first ones out were Feliciano and Ludwig as they made a run through the smoke, breaths held. Next came Lovino and Gilbert, the Prussian tugging Lovino along. Then it was Kiku, closely followed by Yao. Sadiq had a smug smile on his face as he exited after them (yes, he had defeated Yao at the bravery game!). Francis was pulling Arthur out with him, both casting anxious glances toward Matthew and Alfred, who still lay on the floor. Ruby Red rushed out behind them, tail between her legs and whining.

Alfred turned to Matthew as the fire began to burn across half of the room. "Mattie, go! Please go, I'll be right behind you!"

But Matthew remained rooted to the spot. "No, Al. I don't believe you. I know what you're going to do. I won't let you!" And he grabbed the front of his brother's clothes and began pulling him toward the door. Finally, they both reached the door, but Alfred pushed Matthew out before he could grab him again. "Al!" Matthew turned around, intending to plunge back into the cabin, but Marge grabbed him around the waist and pulled him toward the forest.

"No, Uncle Mattie, he'll be fine."

"No, he won't! He's such a dumbass! What is he doing? He'll be killed!"

"I trust him, Mattie." Marge said, looking at him. "Don't you?"

Matthew didn't answer as he stopped struggling to retreat and watch the cabin burn.

Inside the cabin, Alfred was now dashing toward the flames in the kitchen. The room was an inferno, and sweat rolled down his face as he opened each scalding cabinet with his gloved hands, searching for what he knew they needed. Even though the scalding wood and knobs were burning right through the leather, he continued looking until he found it.

He grabbed the object and stuffed it into his coat pocket moments before something grabbed him from behind. Alfred gave a startled yelp as he was dragged out of the kitchen and back into the living room, watching the roof of the kitchen cave in where he stood. But he couldn't thank his rescuer, he had no time to (plus, he was the hero, he didn't need rescuing), as the person dragging him by the underarms kicked open the front door and pulled him through it. Not until he was halfway to the safety of the trees, did Alfred catch a glimpse of who was holding him.

Violet eyes angrily bore into his. "не Вы есть мозг в голове, da? When there is a fire, you run, глупый свиньи!" And he dropped him harshly on the ground at Matthew's feet.

Alfred peered up. "Hey, Mattie."

Matthew appeared stony-faced. He reached down to help Alfred up, but instead of embracing him like Alfred thought he would, he slapped him. Alfred held his pulsing cheek. "Hey, bro, what's up? Chill out!"

"Chill out?!" Matthew growled, landing him another slap to the face. "You think I'll just 'chill out' after that stupid little stunt you just pulled?"

"Well… yeah." Alfred said with a lopsided smile.

Matthew slapped him again. "Dammit, Al, what is wrong with you? Were you dropped on your head or something when you were young? Because your instincts are fucked up!"

"He was not!" Arthur called from across the clearing. Then added, "But he did hurt himself a lot. Give him one from me, lad!"

"Gladly," Matthew slapped him again and Alfred had the sense to back away this time. "If Ivan hadn't decided to save your sorry, stupid ass, I doubt you'd still be here! Did you even _think_ about your states? What they would go through if you died?"

Alfred at last appeared guilty and looked away. "No… dammit, I'm such a screw up."

"Sometimes, Al," Matthew said and Alfred winced, expecting a slap that never came. "But I know you always do something recklessly dangerous for a good reason. So, what did you get?"

Alfred smiled slightly and rummaged in his pocket, pulling out the object he had gone back for. "I got the radio, Mattie. We have to know what's going on in the world somehow."

"We'd better move on," Ivan said, studying the now flame-enveloped house. "That fire will surely spread."

"Right," Marge said, leading them into the forest. "Follow me. That fire will stretch miles before long."

Everyone followed her, running for a mile or two, before finally feeling it was safe enough to walk.

"Yep, I was right." Marge said, stopping to survey the sky against which a plume of smoke rose. "It's gotten closer. We shouldn't linger long here. I know a place that—" Her focus became directed to Alfred who was slumping against a tree and coughing. "Dad? You've been coughing ever since we left the cabin. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Yep," Alfred replied between coughs. "If—cough—Ivan can—cough—live, I—cough—will."

"I appreciate the reverence, Alfred." Ivan said. "But I have only just stopped coughing."

"What? I—cough—haven't heard—cough—you cough—cough—at all!"

"That's because I was trying not to disturb my other group members."

Arthur walked over to Alfred, arms folded. "Ivan, no offense, but you should tell someone when you're sick or hurting so we know that we need to treat you. Look at me, Alfred. Now open your mouth." Alfred did as he was told and Arthur sighed. "Your throat has turned a bit gray from the smoke. I suspect your lungs are in the same condition." He then flashed a glance at Matthew. "Matthew, have you anything to treat smoke inhalation?"

The Canadian swore. "No, Arthur. Only oxygen can help that."

"Damn, well, you'll just have to rest, then." He looked at Ivan. "And that means you too, Ivan. I don't suspect this is an extreme case, you'll live if anything. You just got lucky."

"He's _too_ lucky." Ivan grumbled as he sat, back leaning against a tree and coughed aloud for the first time. "Perhaps I should have just let his ass burn in that cabin. Da, that would have taught him a lesson, would it not?"

Lovino suddenly groaned and slid down the trunk of the nearest tree, holding his injured shoulder. "Ah… I think that potato bastard tore something when he pulled me out of that cabin, dammit."

"Well sor-ree, princeling," Gilbert sneered. "I thought that a little pain in your arm was better than being burned alive. Excuse me and my awesome rescue skills."

"Oh, right," Ludwig said, walking over to him and kneeling down. "We still need to get that bullet out. Here, let me see—"

"No! Get your wurst hands off of me, bastard!"

"Lovino," Matthew sighed. "We need to get that bullet out of your shoulder. If it stays in there much longer, there might be a good chance that you could lose it."

"Lose it?" Lovino muttered fearfully. He didn't protest when Ludwig began poking around his shoulder and peeling off the bandage.

"Oh… Matthew, do you have a stitch kit and some tweezers? I think all that pulling my bruder did actually moved the bullet up through his shoulder a bit."

Gilbert laughed nearby. "Told you I was awesome, kesesese!"

Matthew handed him his needed supplies and leaned down to address Lovino. "Lovino, listen to me. This is going to hurt. And I'm sorry that it will, but you have to bear through it as quietly as possible. We don't know who might have seen that fire."

Lovino nodded, biting his lip. "Just… just get it over with, bastard. I'm tired of waiting."

"Okay, I'm starting now." Ludwig placed the tweezers at the wound in the Italian's shoulder. Lovino tensed in anticipation.

Lovino couldn't help it. He let out a yell, but then remembered he had to be quiet or worse things could happen and suppressed himself to pained whimpers. It felt like the bastard was attempting to sever his arm from the rest of his body by the shoulder. His eyes burned and tears streamed down his face. He ducked his head, wishing so much he could cry out, but then someone took his hand and squeezed. He looked up. "Fe-Feliciano?"

Feliciano nodded and squeezed his hand again. "I'm here for you, big brother. You can hold my hand as tight as you want. I won't mind."

Lovino did, and he hoped he was not crushing his brother's fingers, because that's what it felt like. He peered up for a moment, and saw Gilbert, a pitying look on his face as he watched his brother dig the bullet out of his flesh. This made Lovino angry and determined not to cry. He did not need that bastard's pity.

"It's out," Ludwig said. "Do you want to see?"

"No, dammit, I don't want to see the fucking thing." Lovino said through gritted teeth, still holding his brother's hand tightly. "Is it over? Can I go?"

"No," Ludwig said. "We still have to stitch up the wound or it might get infected. This will hurt too, Lovino. I'm sorry."

"Don't be, bastard, just do it."

The stitching seemed to take forever, the needle piercing his skin then the burning of the rough stitch going through seemed to reach his whole body and he started to tremble with the strain. He squeezed Feliciano's hand, and kept squeezing until Ludwig said, "Finished," and he got up, taking the kit along with him and leaving the two brothers together, Lovino still grasping Feliciano's hand in his.

Marge ran a hand through her shoulder-length brown hair and sighed. "All right. We'll have to camp here tonight. Someone's going to have to stay up to watch the sky to see if the smoke gets too close."

"What time is it?" Ludwig asked. "Has anyone got a watch?"

Arthur pulled up his sleeve and reported, "2:00 a.m. But, damn, it feels a lot later."

They all laid out their sleeping bags around the little clearing. All, that is, except Alfred, who kept constantly rummaging in his backpack in an anxious sort of way. Matthew sensed his unease and said, "Al? Is there something you forgot?"

Alfred swore and moved from his squatting position to sit cross-legged on the ground. "Damn right I did. I forgot my fucking sleeping bag!"

"Well, it's probably ashes right now, ami." Francis replied, smoothing out his sleeping bag in a jeering sort of way. "But you are most welcome to share with me, chéri." He winked.

Alfred grimaced. "Uh, thanks, but no. I'm not really privy to getting groped in the middle of night. Ya see, I'm more than a little tired."

"'Privy', wow, Alfred has learned a new word. I honestly never thought it possible since my departure." Arthur said as Alfred rolled his eyes. "And stop creeping, frog, or we'll make you sleep in those prickly bushes over there where the wolves can get you." Arthur nodded to a patch of thistles that lingered a few meters away from the camp. "Although I doubt they'd like you. With all the sexual diseases you may have…"

Francis immediately sprung up from his sleeping bag, a scowl on his face. "How dare you think that I am not careful! Despite what you all may think, I _am not_ a common whore!"

Yao rolled his eyes. "No, you are _everyone's_ whore."

Instead of growling at Yao like he should have, he looked creepily at him. "You're insulting me, amour? You should go through all that I might do to you if you dare speak my faults~"

Yao recoiled a bit.

As everyone settled down in their sleeping bags, Alfred cast desperate looks around. "Aw, c'mon! I'm _sick_ ,people! Have you no heart?" He made his infamous puppyface.

Arthur snorted as he stretched out in his sleeping bag, arms under his head. "We should probably let you sleep on the hard ground. That might bring down your ego a few notches."

Alfred frowned when he realized his pout wasn't working. "You're cruel, Artie."

"Not as cruel as you, no." Arthur said airily, studying his cuticles indifferently. "May I remind you that it was not I who ripped your heart out after you raised me. Quite the opposite."

There was a tense silence for a moment.

Alfred cast a pleading glance at his other, more merciful brother. "Mattie? I've slept with you a _gazillion_ times before. Please?"

Matthew shook his head and Alfred's hopeful smile was instantly extinguished. "Sorry, Al. I've slept with you on many occasions, yes, but that doesn't mean I _like_ to. As I so happen to know, you talk and thrash in your sleep. Going on that, no, I want my sleep, thanks."

"Dad?" Marge called from across the clearing. She'd felt guilty about pitching a tent that only she used, so she chose instead to lay out her sleeping bag beneath the trees. "You could share with me. I don't mind."

Alfred smiled, but shook his head. "No, baby, you sleep. You don't need me to keep you awake. I know how I am."

Arthur snorted. "Stupid git. Should have weeded that restlessness out of you when you used to climb into bed with me after having a nightmare."

Alfred turned to him, shouting, "No way, bro! I didn't have any nightmares!"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Whatever,"

Alfred then looked at the rest of them. " _Please_? I'll try not to disturb you."

At once, Lovino deadpanned, "No, bastard." And before Feliciano could open his mouth to respond, Lovino said, "And not Feli either. He's too ill, dammit, and so am I."

"Nein, Alfred." Ludwig replied. "I am sorry, but I must be ready to get up if I hear anything. And I cannot do that if you are also in my sleeping bag with me."

"Kesesese!" Gilbert chortled. "Hell no! There's only room for awesome me! Go fish! Kesesese!"

"No way," Sadiq shook his head, arms folded. "I don't swing that way, and I want to keep that as secure a fact as possible."

"No," Yao said. "Americans always living in luxury. Deserve to sleep on ground one night!"

"Mōshiwakearimasen, Alfred-san." Kiku dipped his head to avoid his friend's eyes. "But I go on what Ludwig-san said. I need to be ready…" His eyes darted to his sheathed katana that lay on the ground beside him.

"Ici, amour~!" Francis whistled and gave a slow, seductive wink. "My offer still stands if you will take it."

Alfred gave another grimace. "Uh, no. I thought I already made that clear."

"There is me, da."

Alfred turned, completely horrified to see Ivan raise his hand lazily and smirk. "I am willing to share. You are always saying how much I should be nice, da, Alfred?"

Alfred's eyes darted from Francis to Ivan and back again. So, what would it be? "Hmm, get groped and receive leers from Francis for the rest of this trip, or get strangled to death in the middle of the night? … I think I've made my choice." He got up, bringing his backpack with him and moving to sit by Ivan.

Francis pouted. "Are you sure, amour? You might actually like it~"

"Thanks, but no." Alfred refused to look at Ivan, who was now grinning creepily behind him. "But one thing, though. If you all wake up and find me dead, could you please at least bury me? And, you know, give some awesome speech about my heroicness and stuff…?"

Arthur scoffed and turned over in his sleeping bag. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. We'll be sure to do just that. Now go to sleep."

"Wait!" Marge said. "Who will take the first watch?"

"I will," Ivan volunteered.

 _Well,_ Alfred reasoned. _At least he'll be out of the sleeping bag…_ But just then, Ivan dragged the sleeping bag to the edge of the clearing where the sky and smoke rising in the distance was clearly visible. "This should be good. I can see the sky from here." And he settled down in the sleeping bag. "You are getting in, Alfred, da." It wasn't a question.

Anxiety pricked at his fingers. "Ya know what? I-I could just keep watch…"

"Nyet," Ivan said airily, though there was an underlying dictating tone. "I will do that. You sleep." And he beckoned with his fingers.

Alfred swallowed dryly, slipped off his shoes and clambered in, wanting to remain fully clothed when sleeping beside the Russian. At first, he thought he wouldn't fit (Ivan already took up most of the bag), but he found a spot wedged closely to Ivan's back. He shivered when he felt Ivan's naked torso brush up against him, his freezing skin reaching through his clothes to his own flesh.

Ivan had obviously noticed, as he chuckled. "Goodnight, Alfred~"

Alfred didn't respond, but held his breath as Marge turned off the flashlight, hoping against hope that she wouldn't see him bloodied and unconscious the following morning. _Karma,_ Alfred scoffed as he wriggled a bit to get comfortable. He took off his glasses and placed them by his backpack. _This is what I get for pissing him off so much. Figures…_

* * *

Translations:

Пожар-Fire

Merde, il ne peut pas être-Shit, this cannot be.

не Вы есть мозг в голове-You do not have a brain in your head.

глупый свиньи-Stupid pig

Mōshiwakearimasen-I am sorry

A Word From the Writer: Ohoho, yes, I didn't just make America lose his sleeping bag so he could be annoying. Oh no. All the tension has been leading up to this, folks. Lemon, next chapter.

Until then, you'll be thinking about it, won't you?


	25. How Sweet Dreams Are Made

**One sleeping bag, two horny men, you do the math.  
**

Warning: Lemon, frotting, RusAme (in that order, most definitely), a little fluff, a flip out scene, threats, yatta yatta, you probably aren't even reading this by now for the lemon, I know.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though.

* * *

**How Sweet Dreams Are Made**

Alfred's eyes fluttered open… _again_. Ever since he had 'fallen asleep' an hour ago, he kept waking up. The cause of his restlessness was obvious: He was sleeping beside a rival that had harbored (or was still harboring) a deep urge to kill him a few decades back.

He was about to turn over, when he realized that the Russian had moved since his last doze; Ivan's cold chest was now pressed firmly against Alfred's clothed back. It was all Alfred could do not to give a startled yell or move and risk waking the Russian. But his sudden tension seemed to alert Ivan, and he instantly felt the strong arms snake around his torso and tighten, pulling him close to the other's chest. Alfred tried to get away, but the arms would not yield, and he was forced to lie there, hoping that he would somehow make it through the night without being throttled. Lord knew he had given Ivan plenty of reasons to do so.

Then his heart sped up. He felt the hands move again, slither lower. Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God. Alfred bit his lip as he felt the fingers brush his waistline, venture lower and begin picking at the button of his jeans.

_This isn't happening…_

The button was inched out.

_This isn't happening._

The zipper was pulled down.

_This isn't happening._

Cold fingers brushed against his skin, tugged at the elastic of his shorts.

_This isn't happening!_

Alfred was beginning to regret his decision to choose Ivan over Francis, if he hadn't been already. If he had chosen Francis instead, he reasoned, he would have been groped, yes, but not by his sworn enemy, a former communist nation. And another note: everyone wouldn't be as surprised to find out what had conspired in the night if he had gone with Francis.

Alfred held his breath, too afraid to move. Maybe if he didn't respond the Russian would get bored and leave him alone? But he was far from the truth. Ivan's fingers now crawled downward through his pubes, pausing just above his dick that was responding slightly.

And then Ivan's lips were brushing his ear, his breath making Alfred shiver. "I know that you are awake, Alfred."

His purr made Alfred's cock twitch to life, and the American thought, _Traitor!_

Alfred didn't respond, even though he knew the other man could feel the rapidity of his breathing and the hammering of his heart.

"Alfred~" Ivan whispered. "I know that you can hear me."

Again, Alfred said nothing.

He felt Ivan frown slightly and the hand in Alfred's jeans slipped down to the base of his hardening cock. Alfred took a sharp intake of breath and was sure Ivan heard. Ivan smirked against his ear, grasping with his cold fingers Alfred's arousal and giving it a slow, deep-fisted pump. Immediately, Alfred's cock was standing at full mast, already dripping, anticipating. After so long without jerking off Alfred couldn't control it. Ivan chuckled, the sound going straight to his dick. Alfred tried not to buck his hips into that cold, skilled hand, a hand that knew every way to turn the American on. Ivan gave him a few more pumps before stopping and rubbing his thumb in rough circles at the base of the head, pressing, teasing. Alfred bit his lip. _Dammit…_

When he still didn't respond, Ivan heaved a seductive sigh, his breath assaulting Alfred's ear and released his cock. "Oh, well… this would hardly be enjoyable if you were not awake." And his lips left his ear, his hand slipped halfway out of his pants before Alfred made his decision. He couldn't just lay there with a hard-on and expect to relieve himself when Ivan was so close to him. Plus, it was totally un-herolike to jerk off in the presence of a villain, so…

Alfred's hand suddenly darted to Ivan's which was still halfway inside his pants, fingers tugging at his pubes tantalizingly close to the base of his cock. He held the wrist for a moment or so and then pushed the hand slowly back into his pants. "Don't stop,"

The words were hardly audible, and Alfred wondered for a moment if Ivan had heard him, but the Russian wasted no time in taking up his cock again, his strokes more vigorous than before.

Alfred knew he would regret it, but he let his voice run free, though low in volume as to not wake the others. It wasn't like the Russian had never heard it before; the only difference now was that it was so heroically sexy…

Ivan pulled and squeezed at his length with skilled hands, continuing to chuckle into his ear, sending shudders cascading down Alfred's back. "Hmhm, you are shameful, Alfred. Are you such a slut that you accept the coaxing hands of one who not long ago was your most hated enemy? And in such times, under such conditions as intended rape? Have you no thought of your daughter who sleeps just across the clearing? What if she wakes and finds that we are in the act? Humility, Alfred. You need some desperately, it seems." And he squeezed the American's shaft.

Alfred gasped, but didn't say anything, horrified at the possibility of his daughter waking to find Ivan jerking him off, his cum splattered all over himself and the sleeping bag…

"No response," Ivan growled into his neck. "As always. So paranoid."

Ivan's hand continued to move up his shaft more quickly, almost urgently. Alfred let out a soft moan and pushed back against him, realizing why the Russian was so anxious.

Even through Alfred's jeans, he could feel Ivan's prominent hard-on. So, Alfred wasn't looking so shameful after all, eh? He wanted to voice this, but Ivan seemed to sense his intention and bit his neck harshly, causing Alfred's words to be swallowed by a startled yelp.

Alfred couldn't hold in his moans as Ivan licked the wound, sucking greedily. The American bucked into his hand, his face flooding with warmth. It suddenly seemed that his clothes were too hot and constricting and Alfred longed to take them off, but he thought about how suspicious it would look if everyone else woke up and saw that he had discarded his clothes when sleeping by a supposed enemy.

Ivan's chuckle made Alfred buck into his hand again. "You are feeling… strained, da? So, what will it be, Alfred? Take off your clothing and experience the best orgasm you have had in months, or keep them on and play it safe? Decide quickly, Alfred, you can feel my impatience." He ground his swollen length into Alfred's jean-clad ass as proof.

Alfred gave a helpless groan and didn't know whether to buck up into the hand still stroking him vigorously or grind back against the large cock offered to him.

Then Alfred made his decision. He hastily kicked off his jeans and allowed Ivan to pull down his boxers, the Russian chuckling darkly at his sudden reckless abandon. He could pull his clothes back on afterward. No big deal. Now Alfred pressed his bare ass back against Ivan's arousal, the only thing separating him from the pulsing heat being the thin fabric of Ivan's underwear.

"Mmm," Alfred moaned. "I forgot how big you are."

Ivan half-chuckled half-growled into Alfred's neck, the American's chin tipped upward so that he could gain access to a vaster expanse of skin. "Hmm, I would have thought after feeling it before, one would not be so apt to forget." He bit down again.

Alfred arched into him and moaned. "A-ah… easy. I-I don't want too many. It'll be hard to hide the one you gave me earlier as it is."

Ivan growled and grabbed his hip, forcing him back into the curve of his pelvis, grinding his cock into him, cold fingers digging into Alfred's naked flesh. "I will do what I want to you now that I have you. You know how I like to mark what is mine."

"Yeah, well you did that last time—ah!" Alfred yelped when Ivan bit down once more. "Hey, watch it, dude! Not so close to my jugular. It's freaky."

Ivan bit down again, and Alfred arched his back. "Hm, you like it, da? Besides, I like a sense of danger. It's exciting."

"No," Alfred replied. "It's freaky." He ground against the Russian in spite of himself. "Mmm, oh fuck, yes…"

Ivan growled as he thrust his hips forward, meeting Alfred halfway and grinding his aching cock into the cleft of Alfred's delicious ass. "You want me to fuck you, da? I can feel that you want me…" His hand continued to pump Alfred's leaking cock, increasing his speed. Alfred purred and pushed hard back against him.

"Fuck yes…" Alfred was about to ask Ivan to pull down his shorts, but stopped, casting a wary glance at Marge. "N-no, wait." He turned to face the Russian, pressed chest-to-sweaty-chest. He was almost scared to look up, to meet those violet eyes he knew were burning with lust which would possibly awaken his recklessness or cause him humiliation. "I-I can't. But, fuck, do I want to." He reached down and pulled the waistband of Ivan's shorts away, releasing his massive cock, the sound of it slapping erectly against the Russian's hard stomach making Alfred whimper with want. He ghosted his fingertips up the taut shaft, moaning as the veins pulsed beneath the tight skin.

"We'll just have to do this to get off." Alfred said, giving the Russian's cock a few eager strokes. He could feel Ivan's eyes on him, no doubt enjoying the show he was giving. He gave Ivan a few more pumps before he tugged at his own dick. Then an idea hit him.

Alfred slid forward until they were practically hip-to-hip and grabbed his and Ivan's cocks in one hand, sliding it up and down their shafts. He heard Ivan purr and his hands trailed over Alfred's side and found his ass, squeezing his cheeks and making Alfred moan and buck into him.

"I could do it this way," Ivan whispered, prodding at his pulsing hole with one icy finger. "if you want."

"No," Alfred said breathlessly. "I'd be too-too sore… they'd know I was…" But his last words were lost as the Russian pressed him flush against his cold chest—a welcome reprieve from the heat of lust.

"Very well," Ivan said, his hands moving under Alfred's shirt and to his chest, fingers tweaking his pert nipples, making the American gasp. "Then you have to do the work."

Alfred felt like making a retort, but he could feel his orgasm coming on. He sped up his strokes, loving the feel of Ivan's hard-on against his own, how he could feel the pulsing veins, feel every aroused twitch…

"So close…" Alfred tipped his head back, allowing Ivan to plunder his neck with his lips, tongue, and teeth. "Oh, fuck, I-Ivan…"

"Mmm, come for me, шлюха." Ivan groaned, thrusting up into the hand that was still pumping him, sucking at a soft spot in the crook between Alfred's collarbone and neck.

Alfred bit his lip to keep from crying out as he came hard and hot into his own hand, hips bucking uncontrollably against Ivan's own hard length, hand still stroking. The orgasm was never ending; he felt as if he'd had his first sip of water for months. Ecstasy was rolling through him in waves, and he was sure this was the best orgasm he'd had since before the Uprising. He was so absorbed in his pleasure, that he barely noticed Ivan grunting, his heavy breaths against his bitten neck, as he came in hot, wet spurts onto Alfred's hand.

Afterward, they lay there for a moment, reveling in the much-needed afterglow. Alfred didn't even notice his hand was still moving softly over their throbbing lengths, until Ivan stalled his hand and took it into his, cradling it against his chest which was still heaving. Alfred finally turned his head up to look at Ivan, his violet eyes half-lidded and dark.

Alfred wanted so much to sleep, but he knew he had to clean up. "I-I have to… this mess…" He took back his hand from Ivan and began to move his discarded clothes around, but Ivan quickly pinned his arms to his side.

"It is almost sunrise." he whispered, the huskiness gone from his voice. He nodded to the east where surely the sun was making its way into the sky, casting a grayish hue to the horizon.

Alfred looked back up at Ivan. "But… but, I have to…"

"Shh, малютка." he said. "You must sleep." And he kissed Alfred's forehead and hugged him to his chest, rubbing circles in his tired back. "Sleep, little one."

Alfred was too tired to protest or even think what weird behavior this was for Ivan. Even though Alfred had barely slept that night, he found now, strangely, that sleep beckoned to him and he tumbled into darkness and dreams, undisturbed with Ivan's arms around him.

* * *

"Huh, that's weird."

 _A voice that stuffy can only belong to one person…_ Alfred opened his eyes a crack and saw Arthur standing not far from him, examining an empty sleeping bag.

"Where could frogface have gone? It's too early in the morning for any of us to be awake. Then again, we could just pack up and go and perhaps he'll never find us again." Arthur gave a triumphant laugh. "Hahahaha, that would do wonders for the lot of us! Ahahaha!"

Alfred wanted to investigate too (he was nosy like that), but he suddenly remembered he was naked from the waist down. He quickly pulled on his pants, trying not to wriggle too much and alert Ivan who was dozing like a bear beside him. Alfred hoped Arthur hadn't noticed that Ivan had been sleeping with his arms around him.

"What's the matter, bro?" Alfred was doing up the button of his pants as he stood.

Arthur turned to him, quickly composing himself. "Oh, Alfred, I didn't know you were awake. Did you hear my news?" His face broke out into a wide smile. "Frogface is gone! Hurry, wake the others and we'll be out of here in no time! He'll never know we left without him! Hahaha!" He had a slightly manic gleam in his eyes, excitement pulsing through him.

"Take it easy, man. It's too early to move stuff. And no one's even woken up yet." Alfred cast looks around at each sleeping bag. "Are you sure Francis didn't just climb into someone else's—OHMYGODWHATTHEFUCKINGHELL?!"

Arthur jumped and everyone in the clearing was woken, shouting out their annoyances. But Alfred was too busy to notice. He was currently staring down at his daughter's empty sleeping bag in horror.

"Oh no," Arthur said, coming up behind him. "Alfred, I'm sure she must be somewhere nearby… look, she's taken her rifle with her, she should be safe—"

But Alfred didn't respond as he began searching the forest around the clearing, calling out, "Marjorie? Montana? Baby, where are you? Please, tell me if you're there!"

"Calm down, Al." Matthew was saying, but Alfred ignored him, continuing to search.

A few more seconds passed before a figure stumbled into the clearing. "You called, ami?" Francis gave a charming smile, his backpack slung over one shoulder.

Immediately, Alfred stormed toward him.

"Al…" Matthew's warning intensified as Alfred grabbed Francis by the front of his shirt and backed him toward a tree. "Al! Stop!"

But Alfred didn't stop. He pinned Francis to the trunk and held him there, one arm on his shoulder, the other arm bent, pressed into the Frenchman's throat. "Where is she?"

Francis's eyes were wide. "W-what do you mean?"

Alfred pulled him away and slammed him back against the trunk again. "Don't lie to me. _Don't lie to me_!"

"Alfred!" Arthur called out. "Calm down!"

"Not until he tells me where she is!"

"Where _who_ is, ami?" Francis asked meekly.

"You know who it is!" Alfred said, still angry. "Don't play dumb! I know you've been screwing around with my daughter!"

Francis's eyes widened. "No, no, ami! Never! What would make you think—?"

"A whole fucking number of things!" Alfred growled, now nose-to-nose with the Frenchman. Then he lowered his voice to a dangerous pitch, "Don't. Lie. To. Me. I don't much like the sneaking around you've been doing. And you did it last night in the cabin too. I saw it!"

Francis's eyes widened even more. "B-but, I was only checking to see if the radio was still working…"

Alfred slammed him into the tree again. "Didn't I already tell you not to lie to me?"

"Al!"

"Shut up, Mattie. I'm busy."

"I-I do not understand!" Francis said. "I didn't do anything to Marge. I never touched her!"

Alfred's voice dropped, but not so much that the rest of the camp couldn't hear it. "If you so much as _touched_ her—"

"Dad?"

Marge was pushing her way into the camp. Alfred quickly released Francis, shoving him away. He rushed over to his daughter, wrapping his arms around her and casting the dirtiest look he could muster toward Francis, who stood, bewildered, off to the side.

"Oh, baby, where were you? Why did you go out so early without telling anyone?"

"I told Francis where I was going."

Alfred glared at Francis once again.

Marge looked nonplussed. "Was there something… you two were doing before I got here?"

Alfred quickly turned back to her. "What? No, no! Hey…" He now surveyed her for the first time. "Did you cut your hair?"

Marge snorted, pushing her short bangs behind her ears, her brown hair now styled in a short ponytail. "Obviously, Dad. I went down to the river so that I could see myself. It's not far from here. I just figured it was getting too long. It would get in the way. Hell, it almost caught fire yesterday."

"And did you see… Francis at all?"

Marge raised a suspicious eyebrow. "No… but I saw him before I left. He said that he was going to gather some berries he saw while running through the forest yesterday. He said he just thought he'd pick some for breakfast… um, Dad?" Alfred was now staring at Francis, his anger lightened a bit, but his gaze was still venomous. "What happened? Was there trouble or something?"

"No," Alfred replied. "No, just tell me next time when you'll be going somewhere, okay?"

"Right, sorry."

"And make sure you go with someone else." Alfred flashed a look at Francis that obviously meant 'don't you dare try to volunteer.' "We can't be sure if this forest is safe."

Marge scoffed. "Dad, I can handle myself perfectly fine. See," She swung her deer rifle around to her front, the gun hanging in a sling. "Besides, you shouldn't be worried about me. I've lived for almost all my life in the wild. It's you who you should be worrying about."

Alfred ignored her last comment. "Yeah, just make sure you go with someone, all right? I want your back covered."

Marge sighed with annoyance and turned to walk back to her sleeping bag. "Whatever."

"Well," Alfred turned to everyone else. "What are you all staring at?"

Arthur flashed him a malicious look while Matthew sighed and shook his head. "So melodramatic, Al…"

"Ivan?" Marge had finished packing her sleeping bag and was now staring questioningly at the Russian.

Ivan cast her a glance from his place bent over his sleeping bag. Alfred was sitting a little ways away, trying to ignore the lecherous looks he was getting from Ivan when he came across a splattering of cum hidden from everyone else's oblivious eyes. "Da?"

"Did you see any smoke while you were on watch?"

Ivan stiffened, and Alfred smiled smugly. He had shirked his guard duty to have sex with him. Ha! "Nyet. I did not see any."

"Good," Marge nodded and sat cross-legged on the ground and began loading her rifle. "Who did you wake up for watch next?"

Ivan paused before saying, "Alfred. I figured it would only be fair since I was letting him share my sleeping bag." And he gave Alfred another lecherous smirk.

"Dad? Did you see anything?"

"No, nothing at all, sweetheart."

"There's a town nearby." she went on, cocking her rifle and putting it back in its sling over her shoulder. "We're running low on supplies. And we haven't eaten much. That survival food is barely edible anyway. Feli's weak and Gilbert and Lovino are injured. We'll need some medicine too."

"Humph," Ludwig walked over to his older brother. "I forgot." He rolled up Gilbert's shirt (much to the Prussian's displeasure) and huffed. "Verdammt. You must have strained your back while pulling Lovino out of that cabin."

Gilbert glanced back over his shoulder. "It can't be that bad. I feel awesome, kesese!" He winced as Ludwig ran a finger softly down one scar. "Dammit. I think I can still feel some glass in there. Fucking splinters…"

"I have a pair of tweezers." Matthew said, about to dig them out of the first aid kit.

"No," Yao said. "I've seen this kind of wound before." He said it with a sadness that indicated he was referring to his lost loved ones. "We have to wait until we get some disinfectant before we risk trying to get the glass shards out. If we don't he might be at risk for infection."

"Well, I fucking don't want that." Gilbert said, darting away from Ludwig and hastily pulling his shirt down. "Is it bad?"

"You reopened some of your scabs." Ludwig reported. "Your bandages are soaked with dried blood."

Gilbert winced again. "So that's why it feels so unawesome back there…"

Lovino rolled his eyes. "When are we leaving?"

"Now," said Marge. "The earlier we get there, the best chances we have of not running into anyone who might have the same idea."

"Ve~But I'm hungry." Feliciano's stomach rumbled.

"I know you are, Feli." Arthur replied. "But we can't afford to linger around here. Francis, you said you gathered some berries?"

Francis nodded. "And some pine nuts as well." He took out a small bag.

… which Ludwig quickly snatched up. "These look… okay." he said after studying them a little.

Francis snatched the bag back with offense and offered it to Feliciano. "Here. Eat these."

"Ve…" Feliciano looked worried. "But, aren't you hungry too?"

"Oui, but you are sick." Francis replied. "You need this more than we do."

Lovino sidled up next to him. "You're going to share those, right?"

Feliciano smiled at him. "Of course, Lovi~!"

"We have to eat on the run." Kiku said. "Everyone make sure you have your weapons at the ready." His hand went to rest on the hilt of his katana.

Sadiq nodded. "I'll bring up the back of the group. I say the weaker ones stay in the middle."

"Right, that sounds good." Marge looked around and motioned for the Italians to come first. "Come here, you two. And you too, Gilbert."

The Italies came without protest. It appeared like they were afraid if they didn't get there fast enough, someone else would take their places.

But Gilbert put his hands on his hips. "What? Nein! The awesome me must be near the front. Ja, I will not settle for less."

"Then I'll have to make sure you stay in the middle, da?" Ivan said, smiling creepily.

Gilbert immediately when stark white. "N-nein, I'll go in the middle."

"Wise choice, Gilbert." Ivan smirked.

"I'll lead the group, then!" Alfred said before catching Marge's eye. "Uh, well… I _do_ have to know where I'm going…"

"In that case, _I'll_ lead."

In the end, Marge, Alfred, Arthur, Kiku, and Ludwig were in the front, while Yao, Sadiq, Matthew, and Ivan took up the rear.

* * *

Translations

шлюха--slut

малютка--little one

A Word From the Writer: Whoa there. America got his testosterone going berserk for a little while there (most likely from he and Ivan's little stint in the dark, cough cough). But, really, France, no matter how creepy he is, is not a rapist. A pervert, yes. A romantic, most definitely. But a rapist, never. You will see just how much he loathes it later on in the story.

Next chapter, ho!


	26. Speed Shopping

**This whole chapter sounds like some video game: first one to get enough food from the store without dying wins!  
**

Warning: Angst, violence, weapons, someone gets shot (I'm gonna let that annoy you until you get to that part), some jibes at American food and imitations, America insults England (though not knowingly).

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though.

* * *

**Speed Shopping**

It was an hour and a half before they finally reached the small town. Long before then, the Italies had finished the berries and nuts. Everyone was hungry and exhausted, but Marge refused to let them take a break. "We have to keep going." she said. "It's eight in the morning. Whoever's hiding near here along with us are going to be here soon if we don't hurry."

After walking very cautiously throughout the town, Marge finally had them stop outside a small supermarket.

"I'm going to check if there's anyone already in there—"

"No," said Alfred. "I'll go in. I don't want you to get hurt."

Marge rolled her eyes, but she had to deal with this all day, so she said, "All right. Go in first if you like and tell us what you see."

Alfred disappeared around the corner and through the doors, the glass absent after being shattered by many customers before them.

Five minutes later, he returned. "I've scoured the whole building. No one's here."

" _Yet_ ," Marge corrected. "But they will be, come noon."

"We'd better speed shop, then." Matthew said. "Careful. There's glass on the floor."

They all stepped through the door frames and immediately grimaced.

The smell was overwhelming. Rotting vegetables, fruits, and meats could make anyone queasy. Feliciano had to force the bile down from his throat as he walked in. The meat smelled so bad, they were forced to walk in a wide circle around the whole section.

"God, that smells like something died." Alfred said, nearly gagging into the back of his hand.

"I do not smell anything." Ivan said and they all looked at him in alarm. He shrugged. "What? I do not know what you are all talking about."

Matthew cleared his throat. "Anyway… we need to grab some canned foods. Sure, it may not be as good as fresh, but at least it won't rot within a couple hours. And there's canned meat too…"

"Is there pasta?" Feliciano asked hopefully.

Matthew shrugged. "Not canned, but the noodles last for a while and there is canned sauce, so yeah, I guess."

Feliciano gave a wide smile and immediately darted off for the pasta aisle.

"I'd better make sure he doesn't hurt himself. Damn idiot." And Lovino darted after him.

"We'll have to get plenty of fruits and vegetables." Arthur said, picking up the nearest can and examining it. "Trust me. You don't want scurvy."

"Scurvy? Dude, what's that?" Alfred was barely comprehensible as he munched on chips. He suddenly stopped, grimacing at the bag. "Ick… these are stale."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "That's because they're past the expiration date, git. And scurvy is what you get when you don't have enough vitamin C, which normally comes with not eating many fruits or vegetables for a long period of time. I got it often when I was a pirate. We couldn't properly store anything that wasn't either pickled or dried." Arthur began stuffing various canned foods into his bag. "It's a wonder you haven't got it, Alfred."

"Hey! Hamburgers can have lots of stuff on it, not just the patty!"

"Whatever, Alfred…" The argument was hopeless anyway, as Arthur had known from many similar arguments they'd had in the past.

"I'll guard the door." Marge said and started off for the front of the store.

"No!" Alfred yelled a bit too loudly. "Come back here. Sadiq and Yao will go."

Marge looked miffed as she sulkily made her way back to stand idly beside her father while Sadiq and Yao raced each other to the doors.

Ivan, meanwhile, was examining the snack aisle. "постыдный." he said as he read the ingredients for a bag of Cheetos. "How striking. It's a wonder that everyone in this country did not die from diabetes and high cholesterol before the Uprising."

"Shut up, commie! My food is awesome! _Way_ better than Artie's."

"Belt up about my food, will you?" Arthur warned. "And stop standing there and eating everything in the vicinity. Grab something and be useful!"

"Okay! Okay! Sheesh!"

Kiku turned into the Asian aisle and was surveying the food there. "These imitations are… creative."

"Thanks, Kik!" Alfred called.

"… creatively disgusting…" Kiku muttered under his breath, setting the package of Yakisoba back on its respected shelf.

"Stop looking around and grab what you can!" Arthur said in frustration. "What time is it anyway?"

Marge looked at her wristwatch. "About 10:00. We need to hurry."

"Right," Alfred said, now beginning to collect cans in earnest.

"Ah, I'm all full." Arthur said, hefting his backpack over his shoulder. "Erg… well, at least it will give me a good workout."

"Hey, man, I could carry it for you." Alfred said, his backpack bulging with supplies held lightly in his hand, another slung over his other shoulder.

Arthur stared for a moment before growling, "Absolutely not! You'll probably drop it or… something."

Marge snatched the extra bag off her father's shoulder. "Tch. I told you, I can carry it myself!"

"I just wanted to make sure you could handle it." Alfred said, pouting.

"I'm not weak, Dad." Marge snapped. "When are you going to realize that? When are you going to start treating me like Penny, or Terax, or even Red?"

"I don't think I can." Alfred said. "You're my baby. And you're still so young."

"Alexei and Kalola are younger than me! The youngest, in fact!"

"And I treat them like babies too. Though, I'm stricter about gun use." He eyed her rifle as if it would suddenly explode. "Honestly, when I saw you get that rifle for Christmas, I was mortified." He glared at Matthew.

"What?" Matthew retorted. "It was what she wanted! And she'd been shooting my crossbow. It isn't that different."

"She was eight!"

"And she was responsible and talented." Matthew said with finality. "I don't regret giving it to her."

"Yeah, Dad, just think." Marge said. "If Mattie hadn't of given me this rifle, I wouldn't be as confident as I am now. Nor would I know how to get around in the forest. I wouldn't have ever found you!"

Alfred frowned sadly. "I don't know. Maybe it's because you _are_ so grown up. I mean, you're not Moriah anymore… I feel like you're growing up too fast, that you're too independent."

"Dad," Marge sighed. "I'm a hundred and twenty-three years old. I ought to know what I'm doing by now."

"Eh, well that's nothing." Alfred said, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. "I mean, just look how ridiculously old Iggy is! And he still doesn't know how to stop fighting with Francis."

"He gets what he bloody well deserves!" Arthur flashed back at him. "If I didn't say something when he did something I didn't like, he'd be trying to molest you all in your sleep!"

Francis frowned. "So cruel, amour."

"I can be as cruel as I want, frogface! And you," He pointed accusingly at Alfred. "You fight with Ivan as much as I fight with Francis. The only difference is that we don't actually attempt to _kill_ each other as well as the rest of the world!"

Francis smiled. "That's good to know. At least now when I fight with you, I know you won't have the guts to kill me. Ahonhonhon!"

"I will if you don't shut your—!" Arthur's last words were muffled as a hand closed over his mouth. He thrashed and shouted into the hand until Sadiq whispered, "Yao and I heard something around the store. It's getting closer."

They were all silent for a moment, hearing a soft scuffling just outside.

Suddenly, Yao ran over to them, wok in hand. "They're coming in."

They stood there for a moment, not knowing what to do. Then, Marge whispered, "Scatter!"

Kiku and Yao paired off, running toward the Asian aisle. Sadiq ran after them following a brief decision. Ivan took off to the meat section, no one daring to follow him. Ludwig pulled Feliciano into the wine aisle. Lovino silently protested at not being allowed to follow, thrashing and kicking as Gilbert forced the Italian to follow him the into toilet paper and paper towel section, most of which was nearly cleaned out. Francis grabbed Matthew by the wrist and ran with him to crouch behind a register. Alfred tried to follow them, but Arthur, knowing they would be spotted sooner if they were all grouped together, tugged Alfred to the cereal aisle, Alfred in turn pulling Marge along with him. Ruby looked between Matthew and Marge for a second, before darting into the aisle with Marge.

"… fuckin' thought I heard someone in here."

"You're always hearing things, Dave."

"Shut up, you two." It was a woman's voice. "We won't ever know if Dave heard something or not if you don't be quiet."

There was silence, then: "Roxie, you're just as crazy as Dave. I don't hear nothin'."

"Fucking shut up already, Jim! I'm trying to listen!"

Both men _oooh_ ed. "Must be her time of the month." Jim said to Dave.

"It will be if you guys don't keep quiet, goddammit!"

"Okay, okay! Hormonal much?"

There was silence for five whole minutes, the nations holding their breaths. Francis was currently forcing Matthew further beneath the register as the three people walked past.

"Nothin', Rox, just like I toldja."

Roxie snorted. "Whatever. You said that the last time we got jumped here."

"Yeah," Jim replied. "But I've got a gun this time." The cocking echoed around the store, making all the nations flinch.

"Oh, don't give me that crock o' crap." Roxie retorted. "We have one gun between us—"

"And a knife." added Dave.

"And a knife," Roxie amended. "Tell me, how the hell are we supposed to defend ourselves if say _thirteen_ people were here?"

All the nations tensed.

"I'm not blowin' smoke up your ass here, but I am a pretty good shot." Jim said.

Roxie scoffed, but didn't reply. She was currently lingering around the register that was hiding Francis and Matthew. Ivan was watching them closely, AK-47 out and loaded.

"Hey, you don't suppose there's still any money in these?" Roxie was eyeing the cash register greedily.

She was about to lean over to force it open, Francis and Matthew holding their breaths, when Dave said, "Nah, I doubt it. The vultures that cleaned this place out before probably got it all. Besides, the old money system don't matter now. It's just barter."

"More like posin' death threats if ya don't get whatcha want."

"Oh," Roxie said and continued on her way. Ivan lowered his gun. "Are you talking about that… what're they called… Organization Coup?"

"Partly," Dave replied, now currently examining some rotten vegetables. "Though all those who're still true to the system probably swept in here after them to pick up what they left behind."

Jim scoffed. "I don't give a damn which side I'm on or not. I just wanna survive until the government's back up and runnin' again."

"Agreed," Roxie said.

"There's always the worry that some tyrant will put himself as the head." Dave said.

"Eh, we can do somethin' about him when he comes to power." Jim replied. "Depending on how many people we can gather who believe in the old system. That is, if they ain't all killed beforehand."

"And what if the tyrant isn't so bad?" Roxie asked.

"Well, then he wouldn't be called a tyrant, now would he?" Dave said.

Roxie scoffed. "Smartass,"

Dave was now sweeping close to where Ivan was crouched behind a shelf of potatoes.

"Well, it's official, Rox." Jim said. "There's nobody here. So go do what you're gonna do and hurry. Them vultures will be here again in no time."

"Yeah, I know." Roxie replied with annoyance. "I watched them come here and raid the store countless times. We'll be lucky if there's anything left." And she headed off further into the store.

"Hey! And remember to get some canned meat. I don't feel much like huntin' today!"

"Yeah, yeah…"

She walked past the aisles, not bothering to look into them, intent upon her destination, not noticing the nations who tried to crush themselves onto the long, empty shelves or against a wall.

Then, she turned into the toilet paper aisle. "Finally, some rolls." she muttered to herself. "We were pushing our last one. Thank God we won't have use leaves or something."

She reached up to pluck a roll off the topmost shelf when she heard something scrape the floor softly behind her. She wheeled around, opening her mouth to cry out when a hand went over it. A knife was held against her throat.

"Struggle and I'll cut you." Gilbert hissed into her ear and forced her onto her knees and ordered her to cram herself into the empty, lowermost shelf. Lovino was breathing heavily and shaking behind Gilbert laying on the opposite bottom shelf, trying hard to suppress frightened whimpers.

"Be quiet, Lovino!" Gilbert whispered, still holding his knife to the woman's neck.

Lovino swallowed and shook his head. "They'll know! They'll find us! Dammit!"

"I said be quiet, idiot!"

"Hey, Rox! Be sure to get some condoms too! That girl back at camp looks like she wants me." Jim shouted, then was silent. "Rox?"

Dave was moving closer and closer to Ivan. Just a couple more steps, and he'd turn a corner and find him crouched there. But he was too busy looking around for his friend. "Rox! Hey, Roxie?" He paused, listening.

"Ah! I see, you don't like me screwing around with your friend!" Jim said, laughing. "But, I tell ya, Rox, she's givin' me vibes. Honestly, it's not my fault."

Silence.

"Where'd she go?" Jim asked, nonplussed.

But Dave hushed him. "Something's wrong here."

"Whadaya mean?"

"I mean, I was right. We're not alone."

Dave was now looking all around him, knife at the ready. Then he looked down. "Oh shi—!"

But that was all he could get out before a shot rang out and the man fell over, screaming, cursing, writhing on the ground and clutching his bleeding leg.

"Dave! Holy shit!" Jim rushed forward to help his friend, but he only got halfway there before Ivan sprang up from behind the potato shelf and pointed his gun threateningly at him.

"I wouldn't move if I were you." Ivan narrowed his eyes. "Drop your weapon."

"Fuck!" Jim did as he was told, though hesitantly.

"Hands up."

"Shit, man." Jim said, now shaking, his hands up. "What did you do with Roxie? Tell me, goddammit!"

"She caught sight of me and ran." Ivan replied coolly. "I threatened to shoot her if she didn't. I am alone, and you would do well to leave also if you do not want to end up like your comrade." He nodded to Dave who was whimpering on the floor.

Jim looked horrified. "But D-Dave…"

"Take him." Ivan ordered. "Take him and leave quickly. Tell no one what happened or I'll come after you. I know where your camp is."

"But… what about his wound?"

"Just tell them you accidentally shot him." Ivan smirked. "I'm sure they won't be too surprised; with the way you handle a gun, it was bound to happen sometime."

Jim nodded and bent to grab his friend under his arms and pull him to the front, his eyes never leaving Ivan. When he got to the doors, he felt confident enough to stand up straight and say, "Y-you don't know where our camp is, liar."

"Do not underestimate me." And he lifted his gun to him, making the man flinch.

With that, the man promptly pushed open the doors (kicking away the glass) and dragged the semi-conscious Dave through.

Ivan waited until he couldn't hear them anymore before saying, "All right, they are gone. Let us be gone from this place before he alerts the rest of his camp. I have a feeling they will be coming soon. And Gilbert," he added just as they were starting to emerge. "Let the woman go. Take her out through the back."

Gilbert stiffened, still holding Roxie. "W-what the hell? How the fuck did you know that?"

Ivan smirked. "I saw you pull her into the aisle. I am surprised you kept her quiet for so long."

"I'm awesome enough to keep her quiet!" Gilbert growled, escorting Roxie to the back of the store.

"Great work, Ivan." Arthur said.

"But did you really have to shoot him?" Francis asked, emerging with Matthew, looking shaken.

Ivan shrugged. "Eh, I had to. Otherwise he would not have gotten the message, da?"

"Whatever," Alfred said, holding onto Marge's wrist tightly. "Let's just get the fuck out of here before more show up."

"Yeah," Matthew said, looking over his shoulder to the doors and out of the windows. "I'm sure someone must have heard that gunshot. Let's hope it's not this 'Organization' thing…"

"What _is_ that anyway?" Arthur asked, turning to Alfred.

Alfred shrugged. "I have no friggin' idea. C'mon, let's go."

"Ugh, Dad! Stop pulling me. You're going to rip my arm off!"

"Ve! They're going to get us!"

"Nein, Feliciano, calm down. And stop clinging to me!"

"Stop yelling at my brother, damn potato head!"

"Why do you have to be so unawesome at a time like this?"

"Shut up!" Everyone looked at Kiku. He quickly bowed his head, his face reddening. "I apologize for such rudeness, but we must be on our way and fighting will only forestall us. I can sense this place will no longer be safe very soon."

"Then by all fucking means," Lovino said. "let's get the hell out of here!" And he made for the doors, grabbing his brother along the way. "Come on, fratello."

"Wait!" Ludwig yelled racing ahead of him and blocking his way. "We have to check if the way is clear first. We wouldn't want to run out and be pelted with bullets."

"Not after surviving what we just did." Matthew muttered.

"Da," Ivan smiled and held up his AK-47. "You would not want my efforts to be for naught."

"No…" Alfred said slowly, making a wide skirt around where Ivan was standing. "Ludwig, do ya see anything?"

Ludwig held his handgun at the ready as he peered around one side of the building, then the other. "Nothing, but I have a bad feeling."

"Screw bad feelings!" Alfred said, holding Marge close to him. "We need to get the hell outta here!"

Ruby barked her accordance and led the way out.

Before they were even out of the store, there was a confrontation involving Ludwig grappling with Lovino.

"Get off of me, kraut breath!"

"You are too weak to be in the front. Get back in the middle and take your brother with you."

" _Get your wurst hands off of me_!"

"Please don't shout, Roma." Feliciano's lower lip quivered, threatening to spill sobs.

"I'll take care of them, West." Gilbert came up behind both brothers and grabbed them, eventually letting go of Feliciano because he followed him without a struggle. Lovino meanwhile…

" _Fucking potato bastard! If you don't let me—_!" The rest of his threat was muffled by Gilbert's hand coming over his mouth.

"Eh, stop squirming." the albino said, smirking.

"Try to keep them calm." Arthur told him. "Their anxiety builds off the other."

At this, Lovino grumbled even louder behind the hand and flashed the Briton a scathing look.

Arthur just shrugged. "I can't help if it's true, mate."

When they were halfway across town, Yao stopped them and said, "We need medicine!"

Alfred whirled around and smacked a hand to his forehead. "Oh shit, yeah!"

Gilbert took his hand off of Lovino's mouth, for the Italian had been obediently quiet for some time. Immediately, the Italian said, "I am not going back there, dammit."

"But we need medicine, you and Gilbert-san the most." Kiku said. "And it will be better if we travel as a group. It will be safer."

"I told you, dammit, I _am not_ going back there!"

Sadiq sighed and unsheathed his kilij, making them all jump. "I will go back, all right? The idiots need treatment, but I'm no doctor, so I need someone who knows what they need to come with me."

Ludwig stepped forward. "I will go."

Feliciano clung to his arm and whimpered, "N-no, Ludwig, don't leave."

"Get off of me, Feli."

Lovino was about to defend his brother, but Gilbert hastily covered his mouth with a pale hand.

"Then I will go." Yao volunteered, but Kiku held him back.

"No, Yao-sama, you are too old. Your reactions aren't what they used to be. I will go."

Yao growled. "You say _I_ am too old? You are not exactly young yourself, xiǎodì! Besides, I am wisest nation. I know more about medicine than you do."

"Enough," Ivan said, and they all quieted. He bent to scoop up some twigs from off the ground, breaking them until they were all different sizes. "Okay, all who know medicine well, raise your hand."

Ludwig, Yao, Kiku, Matthew, and Arthur all raised their hands. Then Ivan turned around, stuffing the twigs into his fist, and turned back around, holding out his hand. "Take one. The one with the shortest twig goes."

There was silence as everyone watched them take a twig, as if it was their death sentence. Then, one of them presented the shortest twig in the palm of his hand.

"It's me," Arthur said, looking around at the goggling faces. "What? I've read plenty of medical books in my day. I like to be informed."

Then Alfred stepped forward. "I'll go. I'll go in your place if you tell me what I need to get."

"What! No, git, I drew the shortest twig, so I have to go. What don't you understand?"

"Just tell me."

Arthur scoffed at that. "Like you would remember if I did. You'd probably return with an IV stand and a heart monitor ripped out of the wall."

"You're too old." Alfred said sternly.

Arthur laughed spitefully. " _Old_? You're too young!"

"I'm faster than you and I'm stronger." Alfred said and Arthur frowned. "Plus, I'm a damn good shot. You know that."

"Don't you try to tell me I'm some weak, defenseless old man!"

"But that's just it. I am."

"You—!"

"You're not what you once were. You know that too."

Arthur wanted to retort, but held his tongue. In answer, he turned and motioned for Sadiq to follow him. "Come on, Sadiq. Let's go. I'm ready." He pulled out his pistol and cocked it.

"Angleterre!" Francis suddenly shouted. "Be careful, cher."

"Thank you, Francis." Arthur said bitterly and continued walking.

Alfred couldn't stand there while he watched his older brother walk to his death… possibly. He took only two steps before someone took hold of his arm and pulled.

" _Stay here_ , Al." Matthew said.

"What, and let him be killed?"

"You don't know that."

"It could happen." Alfred went on, jerking his arm out of Matthew's grip. "And I don't want to regret not going."

"Nyet, Amerika." Ivan had snagged him and as much as he struggled, Alfred could not get away. Damn. "You let Matvey worry about you when you decided to do something dangerous. Now you will know how it feels to wait as well."

"If I know Arthur," Francis began, pushing back his blond hair. "I know he does not go down without a fight. He never surrenders. And he's found a way out of every trap in history."

"Yeah, but what about me?" Alfred protested. "What about what happened when I—" The words caught in his throat.

"Rebelled?" Matthew finished for him and sighed. "Al, that's different. He raised you. He loved you. That's why he couldn't bear to hurt you. Trust me, I know. I lived with him after the war and he was really gloomy. But with strangers that present a danger to him or any of us, well," he laughed. "he won't give them any mercy. In that situation, yes, he is like his old, domineering self. He's not as weak as you may think, Al. This Uprising's hardened him, like it has all of us."

Alfred stilled in Ivan's arms. "I don't care. None of us should be splitting up. Not now. It's dangerous."

Ivan snorted. "Like you cared about danger twelve hours ago."

* * *

Translations:

постыдный-Shameful

xiǎodì-little brother

A Word From the Writer: Trust me when I say this, American-produced packaged Yakisoba is _disgusting._ Stick with the ramen, people, really. It won't make you want to gag. And I wasn't exaggerating about the Cheeto ingredients. Go ahead, look on the back of that little bag you just got and see the shit ton of crap you'll be adding to your thighs.

Annnnywho, England wants what England wants. Back into town we go... next chapter!


	27. The Last of the Loyals

**Dr. Drama Llama rates this chapter an 11 out of 10.  
**

Warning: A gruesome wound, fight involving weapons, and a death.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**The Last of the Loyals**

"There's a drug store just ahead."

"Good, because I was getting tired of keeping track of where we went." Sadiq said.

Arthur and Sadiq approached the store. The glass was punched in and the automatic doors were crumpled in their frames.

"Let's go in." Arthur said, raising his pistol. "Cover me."

Sadiq snorted, unsheathing his kilij. "You sound like Alfred."

"I am in no way like that blundering git!"

"Okay, okay! Calm down, old man. We wouldn't want your heart rate to skyrocket."

Arthur continued to talk as he stepped through the frame of the doors, his voice significantly lower. "Pfft, you're older than me, idiot."

"Evet," Sadiq said, stepping backward into the door. "But I haven't been sitting around knitting and drinking tea for the past couple of centuries."

"I don't knit, you sod." Arthur hissed. "It's called _embroidering_."

Sadiq scoffed. "What's the fucking difference?"

Arthur couldn't come up with a retort for that, so he changed the subject. "We'd better start looking. Grab anything you think we might need."

Sadiq smirked, knowing that Arthur couldn't answer his question, but said, "All right. Let's split up."

"Right," Arthur felt uneasy about splitting up _again_ , but if it meant finding more than they would if they were together, then so be it.

He headed for an aisle and stocked up on Tylenol, some pain reliever, fever reducers, nausea medicine, antibiotics, and a few boxes of Band-Aids. He also stuffed several rolls of gauze for wounds into his bag. _This should get Gilbert to finally shut up._ Arthur thought.

"Hey, Sadiq!" Arthur called, walking out of his aisle and zipping up his bag. "What did you get?"

"Eh," Sadiq was rummaging in his backpack. "Some aloe, splints, allergy medication, some hydrogen peroxide, anti-itch cream, a pill cutter, eyedrops, a few syringes for antibiotics, cough drops and… gum."

"Gum?"

"Hey! It's a creature comfort."

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, "Oi…" _It figures I have to come here with this dimwit._

"What's wrong?"

"You,"

"Hey!"

"Don't start an argument, please."

"You just did!"

"Let's go look in that back room." Arthur pointed to a door at the very back of the store. "There may be some stuff in there no one's gotten to yet."

Sadiq was still fuming but sighed. "All right."

Arthur led the way to the door, pistol out. Once he was in front of it, he pressed his ear to the door. Nothing. Good. He reached down and slowly turned the knob…

He growled. "Damn. It's locked, and I don't hear anything." Arthur turned to Sadiq. "Don't you have anything sharp? Bobby pin? Knife, perhaps?"

Sadiq backed away, arms folded, shaking his head. "Nope,"

"What do you mean 'nope'? You must have something!"

"That door's locked."

"… Thank you for pointing out the obvious…?"

Sadiq growled. "I'm not opening it."

"Why? It's just a door!"

"Doors are locked for a reason."

"What? I didn't hear anything from the other side, you deaf pillock. Did you not hear me say it?"

"I did. But the people behind that door could have heard us as well. We weren't exactly being quiet ourselves."

"Then wouldn't they have already tried to escape when they heard us come in? Wouldn't they be too scared to confront us?"

"Or maybe it's a trap."

"What! You're pulling my plonker!"

"Huh? … Well, anyway, you see it in all the scary movies. The stupid teens decide to open the door that has been 'locked for a hundred years' or something."

"Now _you_ sound like Alfred!"

"I've got a point, don't I?"

"What, that you're acting like a coward?"

"I _am not_ a coward, İngiliz salak!"

"Then give me something to open the damn door with!"

"Don't shout!"

"Then _you_ don't shout!" Sadiq was about to say something else, but before he could do so, Arthur dug in his backpack until he found his reading glasses and stuck the arm determinedly into the keyhole. Behind him, Sadiq stiffened.

"You _dumbass_!" His hands flew to his head.

"Relax, damn!" Arthur snapped, moving the arm around in the keyhole. "And shut up, I'm trying to find the—" There was a click and Arthur pulled away, shoving his glasses back in their case. "There we are."

"D-don't do it!"

"Oh stop being a—what does Alfred call it—a pussy."

"I am not being a pussy!"

"Well you're doing a very good impression of one, then." (Ohoho, England's seen a lot of pussy in his day…?)

Arthur turned the knob and pushed open the door, Sadiq unsheathing his kilij.

"See?" Arthur gave a smug smile. "Nothing. Now stop acting like a baby."

"I-I wasn't."

"Sure," Arthur stepped into the little room and examined it.

It was a bit bigger than a closet, but it was big enough to hold some much-needed supplies. Everything was in here: jugs of water, food, medicine, blankets, and—

"Tents!" Arthur said in disbelief, scooping them up. "Tents, wow… how lucky can we get? Surely all of them have been cleaned out of other stores?"

"This is convenient." Sadiq said, walking around, his brow furrowed. " _Too_ convenient."

Arthur sighed, "Oh don't start that shit again."

"No, I mean, really." Sadiq said. "Did someone live here? There are too many tents here for such a small space and… why would they even _need_ tents?"

"Have you stopped to consider that maybe this was a storage room?" Arthur asked, gathering as much as he could into his bag. "Perhaps someone stockpiled stuff and forgot to come back and get it? Or… something." Arthur couldn't bring himself to inquire the other possibility.

"Perhaps," Sadiq agreed half-heartedly. "Look, Arthur, I have a bad feeling about this place."

"So what?" Arthur snapped, now zipping up his bag. "You did before and nothing happened. You're free to leave. Don't let me stop you."

"No!" Sadiq hissed, a bit more anxious now. He was pacing. "I can't leave you here! If something happened, Alfred would kill me!"

"And what makes you think I couldn't make it out on my own?"

"Well, you're—" Sadiq stepped and there was a sudden click and his foot dropped further into the floor. He looked down. "What the hell?"

There was silence as Arthur and Sadiq stared dumbly at each other. Then the sound of metal creaking and the piercing of flesh clawed at their ears. Sadiq gave a scream and his legs buckled and he fell to his knees, unable to descend further for the fact that something like a bear trap was imbedded in his ankle.

Arthur immediately shot to his feet, unable to take his eyes off the gruesome sight. "Fucking God, Sadiq!"

Sadiq was doubled over in pain, huffing, and gave Arthur the dirtiest look he could muster. "I told you this place was dangerous!"

"Oh God, Sadiq!" Arthur was trying not to totally freak out. "Oh my God." He took a couple of deep breaths before covering his ears as a loud siren went off.

"Don't just stand there and say that over and over again!" Sadiq snapped. "Get me the fuck out of this thing!"

Arthur uncovered his ears and his head pounded with the high-pitched shrieking sound. He hurried over to Sadiq, dropping his backpack as he did so, his hands shooting down to wrench the trap off of him. "Did you not see this?" he yelled over the siren.

"It was beneath the floorboards!" Sadiq snapped. "How I was I supposed to avoid it?"

"Where do you think that siren is coming from?"

"I don't fucking know! Now stop asking questions and work!"

Arthur did as he was told, telling himself firmly that now was not the time to be snarky. He focused on the trap—but that was hard to do what with all the blood and bits of flesh hanging off the leg where the metal teeth had bit in. His hands worked at the trap while at the same time he was trying not to vomit.

"Hurry up!" Sadiq yelled, and with one last pull, the trap sprung open and Sadiq pulled his foot carefully out.

"Can you stand?" Arthur shouted.

"Yeah," Sadiq said, putting pressure on his ankle. "Y-yeah, I—" He grunted as his ankle gave out and he went down on one knee.

Panic rising within him, Arthur hefted his backpack onto one shoulder and grabbed Sadiq, putting his arm over his other shoulder. "Hold onto me and tell me where to go."

"That damn siren," Sadiq shouted, wincing as his ankle was dragged over the floorboards. "it will attract everyone around!"

"We'll make it." Arthur assured him and was stepping out of the front doors.

And sure enough, as soon as they were around the corner, the sound of pounding feet hit them. Arthur dared a glance over his shoulder and gasped, seeing a crowd of rebels charging toward them from around a building. They instantly began shooting.

"Don't run straight!" Sadiq said. "Get behind a building, go down alleys!"

"You don't have to tell me!" Arthur replied and quickly darted behind a gas station, the assault on his ears from the siren continuing fiercely.

And they kept running.

They soon reached an intersection and Arthur stopped. "Where are we? Do you remember?"

Sadiq huffed. "I don't know! We didn't come this way!"

Arthur gave a frustrated growl as the mob showed up a couple blocks behind them and they both continued around another corner. But just as soon as they'd come out of a cluster of buildings, they'd found that they had almost run into the mob. They were a few yards away and shooting. Arthur got out his pistol and shot back over his shoulder, smirking when he heard a man scream and a dull thud.

He still had it.

"Shit!" Sadiq growled, looking over his shoulder. "They're gaining. We're going to be hit!"

"Don't look. I'll take care of it."

"Oh, what, are you going to magically sprout wings?"

"Well, I _could_ in fact, but I'd need my spellbook for that and it's in my bag so—"

" _Or_ ," came a familiar, obnoxious voice. Arthur and Sadiq looked ahead and saw Alfred standing in the road along with Ivan, Matthew, Francis, and Ruby. The dog barked when she saw them, her tail wagging. "we could save you." Alfred finished.

Arthur was so shocked, he nearly stopped. "You bloody gits! Why didn't you come get us sooner?"

"You know nothing, bro." Alfed said rushing up and draping Sadiq's other arm over his shoulders. "Heroes are always fashionably late. You know, builds suspense."

Arthur felt like smacking Alfred, but all he could do at the moment was smile in relief. It certainly was annoying.

"What happened to his leg?" Matthew gasped.

"I'll explain later." Arthur said, handing Sadiq over to Matthew and Francis. "Hide him somewhere. He can barely walk."

Francis nodded and locked eyes with Arthur. The Frenchman's eyes were wet. Arthur speculated he must have been the one who convinced Alfred and the others (well, more like just the others) to come and rescue them.

Ivan cocked his gun. "They are closing in. Get behind me if you do not have a weapon."

"Pfft," Alfred scoffed taking out his handgun and cocking it also. "You know I have one."

"Da," Ivan said, smirking. "Da, I do."

Arthur looked curiously at Alfred when he saw him blush a dull red and fumble with his gun. But his curiosity was quickly whisked away when Alfred and Ivan began shooting at the oncoming crowd. Ruby was growling and barking ferociously, her hackles raised. Arthur aimed his gun and was about to shoot when a bullet whizzed by him, so close that it cut through the hair by his right ear. It took a moment to figure out from which direction it came, and he finally turned around to see Matthew crouched behind a window of a store, shooting down the approaching mob with his rifle.

"Aim a little farther to the right, will you?"

Matthew nodded and adjusted his aim.

Meanwhile, Ivan and Alfred were shooting down all the people they could hit, bullets whizzing past. Bullet shells were tinkling to the ground. Arthur took aim and fired in rapid succession, leaving the rebels scrambling over bodies that were dropping to the ground. Arthur saw a couple rebels dart into a building, but he thought nothing of it.

"Dammit," Alfred swore. "They're getting closer and I'm running out of ammo."

"Da, me too, comrade." Ivan said, shooting down a line of men. "We must make our escape now before we are trapped."

"Right," Alfred said, lowering his gun. "And what did I say about calling me 'comrade'?"

Ivan smirked and inserted a cartridge into his AK-47. "You would not be saying that now, da, _comrade_?" He cocked his gun threateningly.

Alfred took one look at his gun, then turned, shuddering, and began making his way toward Arthur, who was still shooting.

"Hey, Art."

"What is it, git? I'm busy!" He expertly shot one man right between the eyes.

"We gotta get go—" Alfred stopped mid-sentence as something caught his eye in the upper window of a building—the glint of the sun reflecting off of a rifle positioned on the frame of a second-story window a block away from them. The man behind it took aim… right at Arthur.

But Arthur, Alfred was horrified to see, did not even notice he was standing in the middle of a death trap. He was going to push him out of the way, but the man had already shot, and it was too late to try and move him, the bullet whistling through the air toward them.

So Alfred did the only thing he could think of. He darted in front of Arthur and threw out his arms.

"What the bloody hell are you—?" Arthur began, but that was when he saw it. He barely had time to say, "You fucking idiot—!" and wrap his arms around Alfred's front, and pull him to ground, before the bullet arrived. Arthur fell, the breath being knocked from his lungs as the dead weight of Alfred hit him full on in the chest. He heard the bullet lodge in something solid and blood splattered onto his shirt—the same shirt on which Lennox's blood had spilt.

Arthur's heart was hammering violently against his ribs as he struggled to wriggle out from beneath Alfred. The damn American always ate too much. And he cursed the fact, as the seconds ticked by—the seconds that could determine whether Alfred lived or died.

Arthur was almost hysterical as he sat so that Alfred's head lay in his lap. Meanwhile, the mob (which was reduced to about ten people) had retreated. Matthew had raced out of the building, calling out to his brother, but to Arthur he sounded very far away.

He slapped Alfred's face. "Alfred? Alfred, you sod! Wake up!" _I can't let him die like Lennox._ "Dammit, I'll kill you if you don't fucking wake up!"

Alfred cracked open his eyes and blinked. "A-Artie?"

Arthur's heart leapt into his throat. "I'm here, Alfred."

Alfred licked his chapped lips and said, "Arthur…?"

Tears tugged at Arthur's eyes. "Yes, Alfred?"

"I…" Alfred wheezed. "I… I'm hungry."

"Oh, Alfred I—what?" Arthur looked quizzically down at him. "But… don't you feel faint at all?"

Alfred sat up and rubbed the back of his head. "Hell no, but, ow…" He gripped his shoulder. "My arm hurts like hell."

Arthur pried his hands away and examined the wound. His eyes then moved to where a bullet was imbedded in the ground inches away from them, still smoking. There was a few moment's silence and then… _SLAP_!

"Ow! What the fuck, Igs?"

"You. Fucking. Git!" Arthur growled between slaps. "I. Thought. You. Were. _Dying_! And all you have to show for it is a scratch?!"

Alfred swore, shielding himself. "Fuck no, I won't be dying any time soon! Heroes don't die, dude, watch more movies, will ya?"

Arthur got to his feet and Alfred tried to also, but Arthur pushed him down so that he lay splayed on his back. "Why the hell did you do that, Alfred?" Arthur demanded, trying to keep his composure. He felt like he was going to break down. "Why the _fucking hell_ did you stand in front of me like that, you idiot?!"

Alfred blinked innocently up at him. "I thought that was obvious. I love you, bro." The last three words were whispered and Alfred looked away.

Arthur could feel tears fill his eyes and then spill over, but he didn't care. "I love you too, Alfred, but that doesn't mean you should risk your life for me."

Alfred cocked his head, unsure if he should look at his brother while he was crying. It brought up bad memories of the only other time Alfred had ever seen him cry… "Why not? You're just as important as me."

Arthur wiped his eyes grudgingly with back of his hand. "That isn't what I meant, Alfred… _You_ are my little brother, so _I_ protect _you_. God, you're so selfish, Alfred. What would Marjorie have said if you'd died? How would I feel if I knew I could've saved you and I—" Arthur shook his head and turned his back to him, scrubbing furiously at his eyes. "Damn, you piss me off. Try thinking of yourself for once! Not everybody needs saving, Alfred!" _Alfred…_ He couldn't stop saying or thinking the name, the name he might have never been able to say again without thinking of a bleeding corpse…

Alfred got to his feet and put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "But, Artie—"

But Arthur jerked his shoulder out of his grip. "Don't touch me, Alfred." And he walked toward the building. Alfred watched until he disappeared through the doors, obviously checking on Sadiq.

Francis had come out of the building long before, and his eyes were red and puffy as he looked at Alfred. "I would have done the same thing you did, ami."

Alfred shook his head and sat on a curb, head in his hands. "God, why am I such a fuck up all the time? Even when I save someone's life, I'm a fuck up. I don't know who I am anymore."

Francis smiled grimly down at him. "You are a hero. You can't help that part of yourself. Arthur is… stubborn. He will come around. I think what you did reminded him of how helpless he felt when he watched his other brother die. He still loves you, cher. More than you will ever know."

Alfred looked up at him. "How do you know?"

Francis gave another somber smile, studying the now setting sun. "Because I once had what he had too." He glanced over at Matthew.

Alfred and Francis both watched the sun until Matthew padded over to them, having finished his conversation with Ivan.

Matthew kicked at the dirt, his hands in his pockets, looking at his shoes. "I… I didn't want to interrupt you and Arthur."

Alfred huffed. "Actually, it would have been better if you had."

Matthew looked up. "Did he say anything hurtful to you? Because you know how he is, Al, he doesn't—"

Alfred made an offhanded gesture. "More or less. I'll live." He frowned at the last sentence. "But obviously some people don't care if _they_ do…"

Francis watched with a somber expression, not saying anything. Matthew sighed and took a seat by Alfred. "Oh, Al…"

He was about to say something more, but Francis's eyes had just widened as he looked over their heads. "Behind you…!"

Matthew and Alfred barely had time to turn around when a man grabbed hold of Matthew's hair and placed a knife to his neck. Alfred was about to tackle him, when another man appeared out of nowhere and wrestled him to the ground, shoving his chin into the dirt, placing a gun to his head. Alfred's glasses flew off and landed in the grass a few feet away in his struggle.

"Take us to your camp!" said the man with the knife. "Or they die."

By now, Arthur and Sadiq were standing in the doorway of the shop. Arthur looked murderous.

Francis backed away with a horrified expression, his hands covering to his mouth. "Non, please…" He locked eyes with Matthew and he struggled to keep his composure.

Ivan aimed his rifle at the criminals. "Let them go."

"Not until you give us what we want."

"What do you want, then?"

"Your supplies." said the man with the gun. When no one moved, he shouted, " _Now_!"

Immediately, Francis slid his backpack off of his shoulders and began rummaging through it. "Faster!" the man shouted, and Francis flinched, doing so.

"W-would this do?" Francis asked and he showed them his gun. He could care less about weapons at this point.

The men examined it from afar and then the one with the knife said, "The ammo as well."

Francis nodded and began rummaging again, but just then Matthew squirmed and shouted, "Don't give it to them, Francis!"

Francis looked up at him, blinking tears from his eyes. "M-Matthieu?"

"Yeah!" Alfred said, landing a good kick to the man holding him before being tackled again. "You'll need it. Don't trust these douchebags. They'll kill us anyway!"

"Shut up!" the man with the gun said, pressing it further into the back of his head. "Or I'll blow your brains out!"

"Don't you fucking da—!" Arthur shouted, making his way toward them. But the man pointed his gun at him. "Stay where you are!"

Arthur stopped and put his hands up, glaring.

The man pointed his gun at Francis again. "Get moving, fruity."

And Francis continued, giving the man a dirty look.

All of a sudden, there was flash of red and Alfred felt the weight of the man sitting on him lift off of him. He sat up, dazed, watching as Ruby Red grappled with the man. The man screamed, waving his gun around, unable to aim as Ruby's jaws snapped at his neck. Just when she ripped the man's throat out, blood splashing over the grass, the man managed to get his gun between her and his chest and shoot.

"Ruby!"

The name barely left Alfred's lips when the loyal, Redbone Coonhound tipped over sideways, rolling off the man and bleeding out onto the grass, her chest unmoving.

Matthew's eyes moistened and the man holding him hostage raised his knife hand, trying to inspect his dead friend, when there was a loud _tink_ and the blade flew from his hand.

"I suggest you leave." Ivan said, a shell from his AK-47 hitting the ground, the rifle aimed menacingly at the man, his dark aura about him. When the man didn't move, Ivan cocked his gun slowly. " _Now_."

With that, the man jumped up, releasing Matthew and running away without a backward glance.

When he was gone, it was like they all breathed a sigh of relief. Alfred crawled over to Matthew, who still lay on the ground in shock, and examined his neck after grabbing his glasses. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

"N-no…" Matthew said. "Just a scratch, but your shoulder…"

"Eh, it's just a scratch too."

"And Ruby…"

They both looked at her.

"She's gone." Alfred said, rubbing at his eyes. "That shot would have killed a bear."

Francis lunged forward, enveloping Matthew in a crushing hug. "Mon Dieu, mon fils!" he sobbed, burying his head in his little brother's shoulder. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

"Calm down, Papa." Matthew said, trying to wriggle out of Francis's suffocating embrace. But Francis held tight and would not let go.

Alfred's eyes connected with Arthur's and he instantly knew they were both thinking the same thing, but Arthur quickly turned away, leaving Alfred annoyed and disappointed.

Alfred instead turned his attention toward Ruby Red. "She saved our lives." He muttered and moved over to her, placing his head on her still-warm body. "Loyal to the end. I wish all the people in the world were like her, then maybe this whole Uprising wouldn't have happened." He gave her a few pats and then picked her up in his arms, standing and looking around at them all. "Let's go. They'll be back with more."

And with that, they all began to head back without any words exchanged. Matthew and Francis helped Sadiq, Francis muttering frantic questions to Matthew under his breath and the Canadian responding with hissed annoyance. Ivan put away his gun and was now walking along near the head of the group. Alfred marched just ahead of him. Heroes were always first. Arthur, meanwhile, lingered at the back of the group quite a few feet behind.

Alfred was trying not to think too hard about Arthur, but Ivan suddenly sauntered over to him and held out his hands. "Give her to me, comrade."

Alfred jerked away possessively. "Why? Are you gonna brand her with your commie mark or something?"

Ivan didn't say anything, only gave an are-you-seriously-bringing-that-up-right-now look. Alfred sighed and handed Ruby's body over, feeling empty now that he wasn't holding her. Now he didn't know what to do. He looked at Ivan quizzically, and the older nation nodded over his shoulder back to where Arthur was slowly trundling along, alone and somber.

Alfred hesitated, but Ivan's creepy smile gave off more than just encouragement. So, with a sigh, Alfred stopped, waiting for his older brother, hunched over, dreading what he might hear. To him, it seemed that Arthur thought of him as a failure after his revolution. Francis had told Alfred that Arthur was just jealous and a dick, but now he was starting to doubt that theory (the Frenchman _did_ have a vendetta against Arthur).

"Hey," Well, if there was going to be some degrading conversation, Alfred might as well start it.

"Hullo," Arthur kicked a pine cone across the path, hands in his pockets, examining the ground.

Alfred scratched the back of his head nervously. "Uh, hey look, brah, if saving you was a bad thing, then just say so and drop it. I'm not down with this whole silent treatment shit."

When Arthur said nothing, Alfred was about to demand so, but Arthur suddenly grabbed him by the upper arm and whisked him behind a nearby hedge, drawing him into a hug so fast, Alfred barely had time to catch his breath before he was being squeezed tightly around the middle.

"God, I'm sorry." Arthur breathed, fingers digging into Alfred's jacket. "I'm so sorry, Alfred. I didn't mean to snap at you, but… but you just scared the shit out of me."

Alfred didn't know what to say, so he responded by hugging Arthur back. And suddenly… he just found himself… breaking down.

Alfred gave a rough heave of his chest and buried his face into Arthur's shoulder, molten tears stinging his eyes, burning his cheeks as they left sticky, salty trails. At this, Arthur sighed and began rubbing Alfred's back in soothing circles. "Alfred… It's okay, Alfred, hush now…" Arthur had to admit, he felt a little awkward consoling the country that broke his heart… and it was a bit ironic. But then again, Alfred had always been such a child, it was only expected.

"I-I love you," Alfred sniffed. It was no more than a whisper, as if he was afraid he'd be rejected.

"And I love you, Alfred." Arthur said with finality. Now he'd finally been able to say what he hadn't been able to say for the past two centuries. It felt like a massive weight off his shoulders. Now he knew that if Alfred died—God forbid—the American would know he still loved him. "And thank you for saving me today. It was a selfless act, and I'm sorry for scolding you for it. But seriously, Alfred," Arthur said, pulling away and looking at his former colony. "You scare the ever-loving shit out of me sometimes." The younger man was a tearful, whimpering mess, and Arthur couldn't help feeling a warmth swell in his chest when he knew that he was the only one who could ever see this side of Alfred, the only one whom Alfred would let see. In this state, Alfred reminded him of when he was younger, coming crying to him in the middle of the night, asking to climb into bed with him because he'd had a nightmare. Arthur had consented (even though it meant a night of sleeplessness) because he loved Alfred, and now he was consoling him because he still loved him. It was something he'd rather not share with the others, especially not with Francis. This was his and Alfred's own private, special moments, moments that still didn't fail to prove that despite how far Alfred had come in the centuries of his absence, he was still in every way in need of guidance and comfort every once in a while.

"No," Alfred said, scrubbing at his eyes, his face still red and splotchy from crying. "You're right. I didn't think of what would happen if I died. If I was killed, my states would die along with me."

Alarm clenched Arthur's stomach. "What?"

Alfred nodded. "Without me, they aren't states, and if they aren't states…"

"My God," Arthur said. "I never thought of that…. Well, I'm not saying I'm entirely right that you did the wrong thing. You _did_ save my life."

"Yeah, but," Alfred said, wiping his runny nose on his sleeve, making Arthur grimace. "I don't know what to do anymore. I can't put myself in danger, even if it means saving someone I care about, but I also don't want to let those I care about die. Dammit, I don't know what to do anymore, Artie!" Alfred sniffled again and a few more tears streaked down his cheeks.

Arthur sighed. Alfred was always sensitive to these sorts of problems. He still wasn't good at making choices… as proven with his absurd menu of 'healthy' foods and his knack for pissing the wrong people off. Arthur took a handkerchief out of his bag and handed it to Alfred. "Here, take this. I know I'm not washing your clothes anymore, but it still irks me to see snot on your sleeve."

"S-sorry," Alfred said, taking the handkerchief and dabbing at his eyes and blowing his nose.

Arthur gave a soft chuckle and shook his head. Alfred sniffed. "Don't laugh at me!"

"I'm not," Arthur replied. "I mean, I am. I mean… I just thought I wouldn't ever get the chance to witness your endearing stupidity again."

"I'm not stupid!"

Arthur sighed. "Apparently you don't know what the term 'endearing' means."

"N-no… it's probably something like 'wanker.' That's who I am to you now, right?"

"Of course not, Alfred." Arthur said, enveloping the man in a short hug. "It's the things I always disliked about you that I would miss the most if you were gone."

"Th-thanks…?"

"Always remember," Arthur said, pulling back and looking into wet blue eyes. "No matter what I say or do, I will always love you, Alfred. I've never stopped."

 _Why the hell am I being such a sap in front of this git?_ Arthur thought, but when Alfred glomped onto him again and let out a few more sobs, he knew he didn't mind. At least if it was just them alone. "Pull yourself together, git. They'll miss us before long. Besides, you have to give an explanation to Marjorie."

"R-right—okay." Alfred sniffed and straightened.

A few silent moments passed before Arthur cleared his throat and said, "Um… Alfred? You know you'll have to let go of me for us to walk back, right?"

"Oh, sorry," Alfred released his brother and wiped a hand under his eyes, straightening his glasses and exhaling shakily.

Arthur gave him a you're-hopeless smile. "Don't be sorry. I should be. Thank you for saving me today, Alfred." And he reached up, pulling his head down to plant a soft kiss on his forehead, just like he used to do when Alfred was small, except this time, he had to stand on his toes to do it.

Alfred immediately stiffened and blushed, pulling away quicker than he wanted to and coughing, examining the surrounding buildings. "Uh, so… we should be getting back, yeah?"

"Yes, I suppose so…" Arthur eyed him suspiciously and noticed that Alfred was nervously pulling at the skin on his wrist—a habit Arthur knew he normally did when he was experiencing anxiety. "Are you all right?"

"Y-yeah… perfectly fine." Alfred said, trying not to think that Arthur had just kissed him on the same spot Ivan had just the night before or what the Brit might say if he found out. "Thanks for everything, man."

Arthur continued to eye him, the younger man refusing to meet his eyes. _We've been having these moments too often._ Arthur thought, believing he'd pinpointed the cause of Alfred's distress. _He thinks he's weakening._

They eventually rejoined the rest of the group and continued into the forest, where Matthew said everyone else was awaiting their return.

* * *

Translations:

İngiliz salak-British asshole

fils-son

A Word From the Writer: Whoa, that was a total clusterfuck of emotions being tossed around. But at least we see England's motherly side. Aw, huggles! XD

And by the way, Ruby Red is named after one of the states. Probably won't find out until later.


	28. Never Trust a Frog

**Haha, you lucky dogs. You get two lemons back to back!  
**

Warning: Sad stuff, lemon, and fluff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Never Trust a Frog**

When they had arrived back at camp, Marge had immediately rushed up to Ruby Red, thinking she had just been injured, but broke out in tears when she discovered it was not so. Alfred had left Arthur's side to comfort his daughter and Ivan had laid the Coonhound's body beneath a blooming smoketree, clusters of soft purple petals cascading down onto her ruddy body every time the warm breeze disturbed the branches.

"She'd like it here," Marge sniffed, giving her pet a couple of pats. "Ruby always liked chasing the petals."

Eventually, Alfred convinced Marge that they should put Ruby to rest and allowed everyone to give her a pat or a rub or a scratch behind the ears. Feliciano was crying the whole time, even after Marge had stopped, saying when it was his turn to see Ruby, "Addio, cucciolo."

Lovino had then guided him away to calm him down, glaring at Ludwig when he got close.

When all the goodbyes had been said, Ivan took a shovel out of his coat (much to the surprise and horror of many) and began digging a pit beneath the tree. Once the grave was deep enough, Ivan scooped the dog into his arms and laid her gently down into it. She fit perfectly.

Ivan peered down at Ruby for a few moments before saying, "Good dog," and shoveling the disturbed earth over her body.

They all stood there around the tree for a while when Ivan had finally patted the dirt into place and stepped away. Then, Matthew parted the crowd along with Francis, laying wildflowers upon her grave. Once they were gone, Ludwig came forward, knife in hand, and proceeded to carve words into the trunk of the smoketree above the grave. When he stepped away, it read:

_Here Lies Ruby Red_

_A Brave Dog, Loyal Companion, and Best Friend_

_You Will Be Missed_

_March 16 2005—September 15 2013_

_Rest In Peace_

Alfred looked questioningly at Marge and she muttered, "He asked how old she was earlier. I told him everything. He's very fond of dogs."

There was silence for a few more minutes, all studying the grave and makeshift headstone. Then, Marge said, "She was a good dog. A very good dog. I got her when she was just a couple months old. A few months later, she'd killed her first sparrow. Ruby Red was my best friend, and she got me through many lonely days and nights. She caught food when I didn't have the energy, eating none for herself unless I gave some to her. She laid by my side when I was sick. She chased away any animal who tried to confront me. And she always greeted me with tail wags and kisses." She paused to wipe a couple tears from her eyes and sniffed. "Ruby was there when no one else could be. Now the angels will get the pleasure of knowing her and her radiant spirit."

Another stretch of silence, and then: "Ruby did what any friend would." Alfred began awkwardly, consoling Marge who was now crying softly into his shoulder. "She saved our lives, and I will never forget that. Her life on earth was short, but well-lived. Ruby Red was loyal to the very end—One of the last of the loyals in the world. If I could make everyone in the world like her, I would. She was an example of how everyone should be in times of great hardship: hopeful and strong. Your namesake would be proud of how far you've come. We all are. Goodbye, girl."

"Farewell," Arthur muttered. "And thank you so very much."

"You did what I could not." Francis said. "Your sacrifice won't be in vain, cher."

Matthew sniffed and sighed. "All I have now are memories of you. But they are good ones. I'll think about you everyday, I promise."

"She died as she lived, as any dog should live and die." Ludwig said. "Eternally loyal."

"Ja," Gilbert said. "Our debt to you is great. We will live as you wanted us to, that we solemnly swear."

"You remind me of Hachikō." Kiku said. "He was an Akita Inu who waited for his owner at a train station for nine years after his master's death. Loyalty, it seems, did not die with him." He then he stepped forward, sitting on his knees and said, " _For the samurai to learn, there's only one thing, one last thing—to face death unflinchingly._ You have done just that, my friend." He bowed his head, pulling something from his pocket and putting it up to his forehead before scattering it on the grave. He stood and faced them. "Usually we give money at funerals, but since I didn't have any, I settled with incense instead."

Yao nodded. "A very kind gesture, xiǎodì." Then Yao stepped forward and pulled a small white candle from his bag, setting it down on the grave and lit a match. The candle flame smoked elegantly while Yao burned some incense of his own in it. He then tore the red arm band from off his uniform and dropped it into the flame. "Red is the color of happiness." He explained grimly. "This is not a happy time." Then he turned and said, "Nín jiāng bèi jiēshòu jìnrù tiāntáng. Ānxí." Dipped his head and stepped back into the circle of grievers.

" _Grief is the price we pay for love_." Arthur quoted. "But in this case, grief is priceless, for our love for you must cost a fortune."

"Sei stato molto amato." Lovino muttered. "Addio,"

They all gave their farewells and walked away slowly, one-by-one, until the only ones left were Alfred and Marge.

"Come on," Alfred said. "It's getting dark. We'd better set up camp."

"Yeah," Marge scrubbed at her face and exhaled shakily. "Yeah, we'd better do that."

They were all silent as they set up the tents Arthur had managed to grab. Sadiq's leg was tended to by Matthew and Lovino was still trying to console Feliciano. Just as the sun had dipped below the horizon, seven tents had been set up. Alfred had convinced Marge to go to sleep as soon as her's was up, assuring her that he would be sharing a tent with someone else.

"So," Ivan had been the first one to speak after the funeral. "There are twelve of us. That means two to each tent. Who will pair with who?"

Lovino quickly grabbed Feliciano. "I will stay with my fratello."

"I don't think so," Gilbert said. "You two work each other up too much. I can imagine what it would be like if one of you had a nightmare."

"Shut up, potato bastard!"

Eventually, Ludwig and Gilbert pried both brothers apart with much swearing and kicking on Lovino's part. When it was over, Gilbert had a firm hold of Lovino, while Ludwig had Feliciano who was whimpering and clinging to him.

"No!" Feliciano said. "I-I want… I want…" He looked from Ludwig to Lovino then back again. "C-can't you and Lovino share the tent with me?"

Ludwig shook his head. "No room."

Lovino scoffed. "I wouldn't sleep anywhere near the bastard. Will probably be jerking his wurst off in the middle of the—"

"Honhon, something on your mind, Lovi?" Francis leered. "If it bothers you so much, maybe you can share a tent with moi?" He gave a playful wink.

"Fuck no!" Lovino said, practically jumping into Gilbert's arms.

Gilbert smirked down at him, and said, "Eager, ja?"

Lovino tried to get away, but the Prussian grabbed him and carried him to the nearest tent, tossing him inside. "We'll take this tent." Gilbert said, zipping up the flap. "Gute Nacht!"

"Okay," Matthew said quietly. "Who wants to pair with me? I'm not picky." He shrunk back pointedly when Ivan looked at him.

"I will, you have to care for my leg anyway." Sadiq volunteered and followed Matthew into their tent. Alfred huffed at not being quick enough to volunteer himself and instead turned to Arthur.

"Artie…?"

"No," Arthur said firmly and Alfred frowned.

"You will share with me, da?" Ivan said. "I much liked sharing last time. Is nice, da?"

When no one still said nothing, Alfred sighed and followed Ivan gloomily back to one of the tents.

Arthur then turned to Yao and Kiku. "So, which one of you chaps will pair with me?"

Yao and Kiku looked at each other once before racing off to one of the tents and bolting inside, zipping up the flap.

Arthur frowned. Francis leered. "It looks like it will be you and me, amour~"

"I'd rather sleep outside, thank you."

"I wouldn't say that, ami."

"Why the bloody hell not?"

"Because," Francis pointed upward. "It is about to rain."

"How do you know th—?" Arthur was cut off as a fat raindrop plopped on his nose. "Well… it can't be that big of a storm, can it?"

"If it's anything like that one that set the cabin on fire, you are out of luck, cher."

"Whatever. I've had to brave gales and storms on the open sea as a captain and fight wars in the rain. What's the difference sleeping in it?"

Francis shrugged. "It is up to you, amour." And he slipped inside his tent, leaving the flap open.

Arthur snorted as he rolled out his sleeping bag. _Can't sleep in the rain? Bah! What can a little water do to me? It's not like it's hail or anything…_

And he stretched out in his sleeping back, feeling the rain pick up and hearing the trees sway and creak with the force of the wind. After about five minutes, drops were pounding the ground and Arthur's sleeping bag was soaked completely through, making him shiver. And all the while, the flap on the tent was waving at him, mocking him…

Francis opened his eyes as he heard a dragging sound just outside the tent. He sat up and smirked when he saw Arthur pulling his wet sleeping bag through the tent flap. He was sopping wet and looked absolutely murderous as he placed his sleeping bag as far away from Francis as possible, on the other side of the tent.

"It is nice of you to finally join me, ami."

"Shut it, frog."

* * *

Alfred settled into Ivan's sleeping bag since he still didn't have one for himself. It was annoying, but it comforted him to feel a body against his own, no matter how cold or cruel, to know he wasn't alone…

Ivan was staring up at the roof of the tent as the rain began, pummeling the fabric, hoping it wouldn't seep through. Alfred, meanwhile, had stripped down to his boxers and had his back to him. But even though his posture was indifferent, Ivan appreciated the fact that he could now feel Alfred's warm skin against his own.

But there was something that kept him from appreciating the situation fully.

"You almost died today." The statement was barely a whisper.

But Alfred heard. He stiffened and said, "So? I wasn't the only one who almost died."

"Nyet," Ivan now turned onto his side, head propped up by his hand. " _You_ almost died."

"Yeah?" Alfred still didn't move, but Ivan could tell from his voice that he was a little uneasy. "So? What's your point?"

Ivan sighed. Alfred was so thick-headed. "My point is," He grabbed Alfred's shoulder, forcing him to turn around and face him. Alfred's blue eyes were wide and he was still as stiff as ever as he now lay on his side, avoiding Ivan's gaze. "I would have been sad."

"Why? 'Cause you wouldn't have anyone to bicker with anymore?"

"Nyet," Ivan said, now wrapping his arms around the smaller man and pulling him so that they were chest-to-chest. "Because I would have missed you."

Alfred gasped as cold arms closed around him and held him tighter than was necessary. Seriously, the sleeping bag was already doing that job for them because Ivan took up most of it. "And why would that be?" Alfred muttered, knowing where this was going and felt his heart begin to pound.

"You are… special to me."

"Special as in…?"

"Special as in I want to keep you." Ivan went on, kissing Alfred on the forehead. "Special as in if I lost you I wouldn't know what to do."

Alfred hoped it was dark enough that Ivan didn't see his blush. "Uh… yeah, right. I guess I would… miss you too…" The last three words were barely audible.

"Da," Ivan said, rubbing his back. "I think I will keep you, if you will keep me. Just us. No one else."

Ivan's sayings were vague, but Alfred knew what he was trying to say and he knew why he couldn't say it because it was same reason Alfred couldn't. Knowing this, he wrapped his arms around Ivan too and lifted his head, planting a couple of kisses on his neck. He felt his chest swell with warmth when he heard the Russian purr appreciatively.

"Of course I'll keep you." Alfred whispered. "I've wanted to keep you for a long time."

"Just the two of us?"

"Just the two of us."

There was silence and then: "I never really knew how long I waited until I saw you nearly killed today."

Alfred smiled against his chest, his embrace tightening. "Then you know we've waited too long."

"Da," Ivan said, taking in the scent of Alfred's wheat-blond hair. Sure, it smelled of dirt and sweat and blood, but it was still distinctly Alfred, the smell of the man he both hated and loved… "But now the wait is over."

* * *

Arthur couldn't properly sleep for two reasons.

One: He was soaking wet.

Two: Alfred had almost died today and he couldn't get it off his mind.

Oh, and there was also the fact that Francis was sleeping in the same tent with him.

Francis made a noise between a sigh and a snore and Arthur huffed. Hopefully Francis wouldn't start talking in his sleep. His dreams were something Arthur never wanted to hear about.

He shifted in his sleeping bag and examined the tent which was now being pelted with raindrops. He fucking got the tents, but no one yet had thanked him… ungrateful gits.

Arthur didn't know why he felt so grumpy all of a sudden. Maybe it was because he was angry with himself for letting Alfred save him or because he hadn't had…

Arthur's hand dipped into his pants, but he quickly caught himself, extracting it as if a whole crowd of people were watching. He looked over at Francis, but the man was still asleep. No. No, he couldn't, not in here with Francis of all people. What if he was caught? _Frogface would never let me live it down…_

_… But, God, do I need it…_

He had to be honest with himself no matter how humiliating his claims: he hadn't jerked off for weeks. It was not like he didn't _like_ to, he just… hadn't had the time.

 _But now's not the time to do it._ Arthur settled and shoved his hands under his pillow so if temptation arose, he would not be able to satisfy it.

But it didn't help that Francis was making those… _sounds_. It was like the Frenchman was _trying_ to arouse him. Surely Francis must be having a very sexy dream, because his moans were heightening by the second. And he was shifting in his sleeping bag—moving his hips in a familiar motion…

Arthur drew his eyes away, disgusted at himself. _Really?_ he mused. _Am I really going to watch this_ now _?_ He was motionless for a minute, his eyes closed. But then Francis gave one of those sexy moans…

 _Ah, fuck it._ Arthur said, turning onto his side so he could see Francis through the dark of the stormy night. _He doesn't ever have to know._ And Arthur's hand once again slithered down his pants and into his shorts. He gave a pull to his cock and it hardened immediately. Damn, he didn't know how long he truly waited until he started stroking it…

And Francis kept making those noises. Arthur hated to admit it, but they were starting to turn him on. He just dismissed it as being desperate. _Never again,_ he told himself. _Never again—_

And then he saw it. A shadow moving up and down. It was small movement, but he was sure he saw it. He connected the dots and figured out that… he wasn't the only one desperate for a wank.

He suddenly couldn't stop himself from watching every move the Frenchman made, and he soon found that his own hand was in sync with Francis's before long. And he found he didn't feel disgusted or ashamed—God, he just wanted off.

Then Francis looked at him, but Arthur had already closed his eyes and stopped moving, though they were cracked enough to continue watching Francis. The Frenchman kept looking at him, his eyes half-lidded, his hand still moving now with urgency.

Arthur felt his cock twitch when he finally pinpointed the reason: Francis was wanking off to _him_. Sure, it wasn't a surprise—Francis wanked off to everyone—but it didn't fail to arouse the Briton.

Arthur longed to continue his movements, but Francis was watching too closely for them to go unnoticed. So he just lay there, hoping he wouldn't come just from that because, he had to admit this, it would be humiliating even if Francis didn't know.

And then something Arthur didn't expect: Francis got up, cock still out, and made his way over to him. Arthur squinted his eyes shut, and there was no time to right himself, as Francis rolled him onto his back, then straddled him, wanking off in front of him. Just as Arthur couldn't believe what was happening—and seriously hoped Francis wouldn't come on him, that would be awkward—Francis leaned down and muttered, "I know you are awake, cher."

When Arthur didn't answer, Francis began tugging down his sleeping bag. Arthur forced himself to be quiet as Francis uncovered his erection, his hand still wrapped around it.

"Honhon," Francis tsked. "You have been up to something, I see." And the Frenchman slid down his clothed body, making sure the Briton could feel the state of his swollen length. "Mmm, I'll just have to take care of it for you since you are 'asleep.'"

And before Arthur could do or say anything, Francis had taken his cock into his mouth.

Arthur couldn't pretend that he was sleeping any longer. He grunted, biting his lip and covering his mouth with the back of his hand, looking everywhere else but at Francis. He could feel his face heat up and he sincerely hoped that it was dark enough that Francis couldn't tell.

Francis gave that annoying laugh—a laugh that curiously made Arthur's cock twitch. "Bon matin, chéri. It is nice to see you have finally joined me. This wouldn't nearly be as exciting with you sleeping."

Arthur quickly sat up and began to back away. "Get away from me, frog!"

Francis smirked. "You do not seem to entirely want me to." He gave Arthur's cock a deep-fisted pump as proof.

Arthur couldn't help himself. He hadn't come for so long, his dick was extra sensitive to any touch—even the frog's. He moaned and bucked his hips into the hand.

"You see," Francis went on, continuing to pump Arthur's dick slowly, teasingly. "I need to get off, but I have no intention of being the only one if I am not alone."

Even though Arthur wanted that hand to keep moving along his shaft, he knew he would regret it if he just let this happen without a fight. Going on that, Arthur pushed Francis away from him with both hands. "And why do you possibly fucking think I would let that happen?"

"Parce que," Francis leered, his position unyielding. He reached up and snagged both of Arthur's hands with his own, pinning them to his sides. "I know you want it too."

"W-wait, get the hell away—!"

But the rest of Arthur's words were lost as Francis's mouth once again enveloped his cock. Arthur couldn't believe what he was seeing: Francis, the frog, fucking _France_ , his enemy since forever, was sucking him off. It enraged and aroused him at the same time. There was no doubt in his mind that he'd always wanted to see Francis's face covered in his cum, nor that he sometimes imagined taking the man captive and forcing him to give him head.

But he wasn't forcing him. Francis had willingly, _willingly_ ,crawled over and agreed to it. Well… more like took Arthur by surprise. And Francis had trapped him. Arthur tried not to think about how sexy the situation seemed. His many fantasies were warped: Francis was the dominating one now.

And Arthur fought. He squirmed and growled and cursed—though only half-heartedly—to make sure the Frenchman knew he was still opposed to this. Francis, though, seemed not to notice, too busy pleasuring him.

So Arthur went still. He had tried (and failed), oh well, he'd just go through with it. He kept telling himself that as Francis got more vigorous with his blowjob. Arthur bit his lip so hard it bled to keep his voice in, but it soon became unbearable as Francis began teasing the head of his dick, his talented tongue probing the slit. He resorted to biting the back of his hand, and Francis noticed his restraint with a chuckle that did wonders on his shaft.

Francis took three-quarters of his length into his hot mouth without warning, making a circle with his index finger and thumb to tease the rest of his shaft. At this, Arthur couldn't contain himself. He let out a moan, hips bucking up into the mouth, heat suffusing his whole body. Francis hummed around him, and Arthur lost it. He didn't care if he fucked Francis's mouth. The bloody git deserved it!

And so he did. He thrust up into the blond's mouth, into his throat, holding the back of his head down, no longer caring about his reputation. He hadn't felt this good for _so long_ … and he damn well deserved _something_ for risking his life for tents and medicine today!

Francis's tongue trailed from base to tip, applying just enough pressure to make the Briton squirm. There was no doubt he loved sucking people off. He was the best after all. But the heady smell of Arthur's arousal intoxicated him more than his other lover's and the fact that he could finally witness Arthur's sexy expressions and moaning was adding to his own pleasure.

In fact, Francis doubted he could last much longer.

As so, he increased his speed, moving his own hips against the sleeping bag, this time taking all of Arthur's length into his mouth, his tongue swirling around it. At this, Arthur arched and moaned, "Oh God—!"

Francis chuckled, releasing Arthur's cock and said, "'Francis' is fine, amant."

Arthur glowered down at him, and Francis concluded that it was the sexiest angry look he had ever received from him. To show his appreciation, Francis lifted one of his hands to trail up his shirt and tweak one of the Briton's pert nipples, releasing the other of Arthur's hands in the process. And that hand caught him by the wrist and that oh-so arousing glare was given.

"Don't you dare stop now, bastard."

Francis laughed and retracted his hand, placing it softly over Arthur's. "Of course not, amour."

And he took Arthur into his mouth again. The Briton threw back his head and moaned, bucking his hips into that hot, wet mouth. "Uhn, shit…"

Francis continued his teasing, anticipating Arthur's orgasm with eagerness. But then… he got an idea.

He didn't want this to end quite yet.

So he went as hard as he could, hollowing out his cheeks, his tongue pressing. And just as soon as he felt Arthur's cock twitch with impending climax…

… he stopped.

Well, he didn't exactly stop—he continued but slowly, teasingly, just like he had before.

Arthur looked curiously down at him, but didn't say anything.

After a minute or so, he sped up and once again… stopped.

This time, the Briton did respond. He lifted himself up on his elbows and glared down at Francis murderously. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Don't tell me you don't know how close I am!"

Francis gave him an innocent look and Arthur dropped back down onto the sleeping bag with an aggravated huff.

And Francis continued, bringing Arthur to the brink and stopping. He kept Arthur's hips from moving with his hands.

Arthur's hand shot down to lodge in Francis's hair and he growled, "Fucking suck me off already, you bloody sod!"

Seriously, for their first time Francis wasn't making a very good impression.

Francis smirked around his length. "Do you want it, cher?"

"What kind of stupid question is that? Of course I want it, git!"

"Do you _really_ want it?"

"Yes, I—!" But Arthur paused, catching on. Then he shook his head and said furiously, "No way in hell! I _am not_ begging!"

"D'accord," Francis said skeptically, and he returned to his ministrations.

He brought him to the precipice and stopped a few more times before Arthur couldn't take it. The Briton arched and moaned, saying, "All right, fuck, frog! I-I fucking _need_ it, okay? … ahn, let me come." When Francis looked up at him, raising an expectant eyebrow, Arthur added, "Please! … fuck…"

"Well," Francis said, smirking. "Since you said 'please'…"

Francis set to sucking him off again, hollowing his cheeks and pressing on his length with his tongue like before. But this time, he allowed Arthur to go further than before. Arthur was fisting the sleeping bag and panting. The sight was delicious to Francis, who was close to climax himself. Seeing Arthur in such a weakened and willing state made him increase his speed, and pretty soon, he was deep-throating his rival.

All worry flew from Arthur's mind as he was pleasured like he hadn't been in months—years. He hated to admit it, but the Frenchman was good. And when Francis locked eyes with him, Arthur was pushed over the edge. He arched and was coming in molten-hot spurts, thrusting through his orgasm, pulling Francis by the hair so that his dick was shoved down his throat. His orgasm seemed to last forever, and he was so lost in his pleasure that he failed to notice Francis rolling his hips into the sleeping bag.

When it was over, the reality of what had just conspired hit Arthur like a sledgehammer to the face. _Oh shit,_ he thought. _Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit! What the hell have I done?_ And he sat up, still breathing heavily, watching his length pull out of Francis's mouth, a trail of saliva and cum following. Arthur's whole body heated when he realized that Francis had swallowed all of his cum.

Francis's face was flushed with obvious arousal and he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the trail of cum on his chin vanishing. "Honhon, you performed well, mon Angleterre."

Arthur scoffed and felt a bit… exposed. He surreptitiously folded his legs to hide his softened cock and scoffed, "Only because you wouldn't properly suck me the hell off."

Francis leered. "Non, chéri, I needed it."

"Needed it…?" Arthur began, but paused mid-sentence to examine Francis's cock. It was flaccid… but surely it would be erect if Francis's libido was anything to go by. Then Arthur began piecing it all together, spotting something white pooled at the foot of his sleeping bag. Disgust and arousal filled him at the same time. "You… you came on my sleeping bag, you sod!" Arthur glared and turned his back to him. Great, now everyone would know…

"Oh, don't be like that, amant." Francis said stretching out alongside Arthur on the sleeping bag. "We can clean it off. Besides, no one would be surprised, oui?"

"Damn idiot," Arthur grumbled, draping his jacket over himself. "Everyone will be surprised. We're enemies, for Christ's sake!"

"I know," Francis said, curling up against him, spooning him—much to Arthur's displeasure. He felt exposed in his state of undress, especially with the feeling of Francis's softened cock pressed against his ass. "But I wouldn't care."

Arthur scoffed. "Of course you wouldn't. You wouldn't have any shame even if you shagged a donkey."

Francis winced, but pulled Arthur closer to him nonetheless. "I wouldn't care because I love you, chéri."

Arthur stiffened. "You're just saying that to get in my trousers."

"Don't you think I would have done so earlier if that was the case?"

Arthur was silent for a moment. "Why did you do that?"

Francis breathed out against Arthur's neck, making the Briton shiver. "When I saw that I could lose you any day, I decided I had better let you know."

Silence, then: "You're a little late then, aren't you?"

Francis laughed. "Very late, oui. But obviously early enough." The Frenchman planted a line of kisses down the back of Arthur's neck.

"Er…" Arthur wanted something to do to end the awkward moment, so he began to shift uncomfortably. "We should probably clean up and… you know… clothe ourselves."

But Francis held him tighter still, Arthur's back melding perfectly into the Frenchman's. It was strangely comforting to Arthur. Rarely had anyone held him in this manner. "Non, amour. You are tired. I know you have not slept at all tonight, for I have not slept either."

Arthur yawned, feeling drowsy by Francis's warm embrace. "Why… why did you wank off today? How could you after what happened?"

The question seemed to catch Francis by surprise, but he wasted no time in answering, "It relaxes me… helps me sleep. And if I'm not mistaken, you were doing it too." Arthur could feel Francis smirk into his neck.

"Hopefully we won't encounter more days like today." Arthur's mutter was barely audible, as if he feared it would be contradicted if he said it any louder.

Francis sighed. "All we can do is hope now. All we have done is hope. Perhaps relying solely upon hope has led to this problem—we must make our own stand to right the wrong that we have caused. It is our responsibility; our job."

"True," And for the first time in his life, Arthur found himself agreeing with Francis—though he didn't care so much now. "I'm just happy we're all together. It may not be everyone we want to be here," Arthur's throat constricted and he coughed. "but I'm still grateful I'm not the only one left."

Francis pulled the sleeping bag over them. "You will never be alone, cher. You never were." Francis kissed him on the cheek and wrapped his arms around him, nuzzling his neck. "Bon nuit, mon belle Angleterre."

And, without a care in the world, Arthur slipped into slumber, the warmth of Francis's body against his chasing away nightmares that he would have had if he were otherwise alone.

* * *

Translations:

Addio, cucciolo-Farewell, puppy

Nín jiāng bèi jiēshòu jìnrù tiāntáng. Ānxí-You will be accepted into heaven. Rest in peace.

Sei stato molto amato-You have been loved.

Gute Nacht-Goodnight

Bon matin, chéri-Good morning, darling

Parce que-Because

amant-lover

D'accord-Okay

Bon nuit, mon belle Angleterre-Goodnight my beautiful England

A Word From the Writer: Yup, the pairs are starting to form. First RusAme, now FrUK. But honestly what else were you expecting when France and England were sharing tents?

By the way... I have already written the first major character death. It's happened, one of them is gone. I'll just let your paranoia run free until then. XD


	29. To Go or Not to Go

**And _this_ is why nothing gets accomplished at world summits.  
**

Warning: Angst, insults, threat using weapon, and some fluffystuffs.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**To Go or Not to Go**

There was a rapping on the side of the tent.

"Wake up! We have a problem."

Alfred groaned and cuddled closer to Ivan. Well… he wouldn't use the term 'cuddle.' That would just be too weird.

But Ivan didn't seem to mind the cuddling at all. In fact, he made a sound like that of a purr deep in his throat when Alfred's arms tightened around him. The Russian rubbed his back and kissed his forehead softly. "Hm, we should be getting up now, da?"

"Ah, she can wait."

"Dad!"

Alfred sighed and pushed himself up onto his hands. He was already beginning to miss the feel of the Russian's body against his own. "Coming, honey!"

Ivan chuckled as Alfred pulled on his clothes, still laying in the sleeping bag, content with just watching the American rush around. Alfred sent a mock glare at him. "What are you laughing at?"

Ivan chuckled and sat up. "I would never have believed you would make a good father."

Alfred blushed and busied himself with organizing his backpack to hide it. "Uh… yeah. Thanks, I guess."

"Da," Ivan went on. "With all the dangerous situations you got in and the destruction you caused, it seemed surprising to me that you are a good example to your states."

Alfred didn't know if that was a compliment or an insult, so he was confused about how to respond. Eventually, he said, "Well, I have to be. And I have to protect my states, don't I?"

Ivan was now standing in only his underwear. "I suppose. If I would have known you had a soft spot like that, I'd have struck there."

Alfred stiffened. "You almost did."

"But I did not, did I? Now I know how much I would have hurt you if I did. Sure, I would have won the war, but," Ivan shrugged and pulled on his pants. "It does not hurt to know one another. Perhaps if that was the case, we would not have been so hostile toward each other."

"Yeah," Alfred muttered. "Maybe," Then he turned around and examined Ivan. "Jeez, put on a shirt or something. They'll suspect something."

The Russian put on his coat, buttoning it up. "Whatever you say, woman."

Alfred growled. "I'm not acting like a woman. I don't nag. That's Iggy's job. I just don't want this slipping out just yet." He watched him, scrutinizing until he threw up his hands and gave an impatient sigh. "Here, let me do it. You're too slow. With your gigantic fingers…" Alfred buttoned up the rest of his coat and when he looked up, he found that Ivan was gazing lovingly down at him. He immediately felt his face heat and he jumped back, giving the Russian a couple hearty slaps to the chest, clearing his throat. "Uh, yeah, right. There ya go, man. Now let's go see what the hell Marge is so worked up about." And he marched out of the tent, backpack in tow.

Ivan chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. "Such a child. Good thing he's cute~" He hefted his backpack over one shoulder and ducked out of the tent flap.

Everyone was already out and awake. Ludwig was trying to keep Feliciano awake and Gilbert was restraining Lovino from going back into their tent and sleeping. His shouts and cursing in the morning was an assualt to the ears. Sadiq and Matthew were talking quietly to one another, possibly about the condition of Sadiq's wound. Sadiq was leaning against the trunk of a tree, looking miserable. Yao and Kiku were as quiet as ever, respectfully reading the atmosphere. Arthur and Francis, surprisingly, were not yelling at each other, not even glaring; they were in fact looking in different directions. Arthur's face was flushed and Francis had a curiously smug expression.

"Okay," Marge said, folding her arms. "So I went through all the cans of food we all gathered yesterday and discovered something unbelievable."

"A secret weapon?" Lovino asked.

"Nein, that's stupid." Gilbert said and Lovino frowned at him. "It is mein awesome face!"

Ludwig scoffed. "Shut up, East. It's probably a bomb. Whoever set that trap yesterday might have planted others."

"A message?" Arthur asked. "Asking for our surrender?"

"A map, maybe?" Yao inquired.

"Plans from the Organization?" Kiku asked.

"A hero?" Alfred said, then scoffed. "No wait, you already have me. Scratch that."

Ivan rolled his eyes. "Is it a form of communication, perhaps?"

"Non, of course not." Francis said, leering. "It's probably some sexual toy stuffed into a can!"

Arthur grimaced at him. "Why would you possibly think that?"

"Oh… experience." Francis said airily and everyone took a step back from him.

Matthew cleared his throat and asked meekly, "Is it… something gruesome?"

"Yeah," Sadiq said. "Like a body part or something? That wouldn't be surprising since we're in America…"

"Is it pasta~?" Felicianio trilled hopefully.

But Marge shook her head at all of them. "Nope, you're all wrong."

"Then what is it?" They all asked at once.

Marge produced a can from out of her bag. "How the _hell_ are we going to get into these without a _can opener_?"

At first, no one said anything. Then Gilbert broke out laughing.

"Kesesese! We are all idiots!"

"Speak for yourself, bastard." Lovino grumbled beside him. "We can open it with knives, can't we?"

"Nein," Ludwig said. "We use our knives for everything. The last thing we want is to stick it in our food."

"Shit," Arthur swore. "I didn't even think about a bloody can opener!"

"Maybe it was because Ivan had just shot someone…" Francis muttered.

But Ivan heard and gave him his signature shut-the-fuck-up smile. "What was that, Francis? I did not seem to catch it."

Francis stiffened and laughed nervously. "Aheheh, nothing, nothing, Russie!"

"You mean all that shit we went through yesterday was for nothing?" Alfred said in disbelief.

"Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Alfred." Arthur said. "We're going to have to make another trip into town."

"I'm not going." Lovino snorted. "Not as long as those rebels are anywhere near there."

"Lovino is right." Francis said, moving over to stand close beside Matthew. "We almost lost people out there. And who knows if the rebels are still there?"

"Da," Ivan agreed. "They might have regrouped."

"They might be scouring the woods for us." Kiku said under his breath, but his words carried and made them all quiet.

Then Ludwig said, "Well… we can't just stand around here and expect a can opener to show up. We must go back into town or we will starve." He then looked worriedly at Feliciano as the Italian's stomach rumbled. "And Feli is weak and hungry. We are all hungry."

"I say all of those in fit condition go." Alfred said and stepped into the center of the circle. "All right, who's with me?"

"Oh no, you don't." Arthur said quickly, pulling him back. "You aren't going anywhere after what happened."

"And why the hell not?"

"You insulted the rebels, ami." Francis said and Arthur cast him a first-time grateful look. "They won't take kindly to that if they find you."

"Da," Ivan said. "Anyone who helped Arthur and Sadiq should not go, myself included. If the rebels find us, they will not hesitate to kill us."

"So," Matthew began, ticking off his fingers. "That's me, Ivan, Alfred, Arthur, Sadiq, and Francis…"

"Ha!" Alfred laughed spitefully. "I can take them. They have nothing on me. Let them attack me. We'll see how far they can get."

Arthur frowned. "That's not very good thinking, Alfred."

"No, Dad." Marge begged. "Please don't go. They'll kill you as soon as they see you."

"Oh?" Alfred said. "And I suppose _you_ want to go in my place?"

Marge didn't say anything, only looked at her father expectantly. Alfred's eyes widened and he shook his head. "No, absolutely not, Montana. You won't be going anywhere unless I'm with you."

"But you _can't_ go, Dad." Marge said, pleading with her father to listen. "Besides, with me the trip would be a lot quicker. I know this town, Dad. I know all the hiding places and stores where can openers may still be. And I know my way back."

"You know," Gilbert said. "The chick has a point."

Alfred stared indignantly at her. "I won't let you go. No. And that's final."

"Dad!" Marge said, now angry. "I'm not a child anymore!"

"What does that have to do with anything? You're still my daughter, and, goddammit, you will listen to me!"

"It has everything to do with it!" Marge said furiously. Her face was now a dull red. "You can't tell me what to do anymore! I'm old enough to make decisions on my own, get it? It's what you raised me to do! How am I ever going to survive on my own if something happened to you, God forbid?"

"No,"

"Just give me a chance!"

"I said _no_ , Marjorie."

Marge looked as if she would explode, but she exhaled deeply and said, "Fine. If you're going to be like that, I guess I'll just go whether you like it or not."

Alfred's face fell. "Marjorie!"

But Marge was already headed to the trail that led back into the town. "I'm going, who's with me?"

"Someone get her!" Alfred said, looking around desperately. "Tie her up if you have to!"

But no one moved.

"Fine, then," Alfred said, glaring at all of them. "Since she's my daughter." And he rolled up his sleeves marching toward her.

But when he got within a few feet of her, Marge took out her gun and said, "Don't you dare, Dad."

Alfred stopped in his tracks, looking scared and confused. "M-Montana…?"

"I could never kill you." Marge said, still holding her gun aimed at her father. "But I _can_ hobble you."

Alfred was panicking. "Marge, listen I—"

"Don't think I won't." Marge said firmly, aiming her rifle at one of Alfred's legs. "Anything to keep you out of harm's way. It'll be too risky to go back to town for you. You know that, but you're too stubborn to accept it."

Alfred at first considered wrestling the gun away from her. He didn't care if he got shot in the leg in the process. It was just a leg, honestly…

But if he was disabled, he would be a burden to everyone else and he wouldn't be able to help defend the group if need be. And he loathed just sitting back and feeling completely helpless…

So he took a step back and ducked his head. "I'm sorry, Marjorie. I understand your reasons for doing this. But I want you to know that this is your first and only chance to prove to me that you're ready to go off on your own without me."

Marge scoffed. "I've been without you since before the Uprising, Dad." She cocked her rifle. "I can handle myself. I always have. How do you think I've survived living in the forest by myself for years on end?"

"Didn't you have Ruby with you?"

At this, Marge's face fell. "Well…" Her voice was raspy. "She couldn't do _everything_ for me. And she was only eight years old, so I've only had her for a short while."

"But the Uprising is something you haven't ever dealt with before."

Marge sighed. "Dad, I'll be fine. This is what you trained us for. Have you felt anything unusual coming from my brothers and sisters? No. That's because they know how to take care of themselves in situations like these. You can trust me." She looked up at Alfred. "I'll return home safe, I can promise you that."

Alfred gave a sad smile and held out his arms. Immediately, Marge lowered her rifle and ran to hug him. "I'm sorry, Marge." he said. "I just worry about you sometimes. I worry about all my states."

"Even Red?"

"Even Red."

"I love you, Dad."

"I love you too, baby." Alfred said, then released her and turned to face the rest of the group. "So, who's going to volunteer to defend my baby girl?"

" _Dad_ ,"

"I will go also," Kiku said dipping his head. Alfred smiled. He knew he could trust Kiku.

"All right," he said. "Who else?"

"I will go," Ludwig said and stepped forward.

"I will," Yao said. "I'm the only one left after counting out the injured and everyone that was seen before."

"Kesese!" Gilbert laughed. "I am not injured! I will go too!" And he started forward to join them.

"Nein, East." Ludwig grabbed his brother by the shoulder and pulled him back. "You are too weak. I'm not going to risk losing you."

"What are you talking about? I'm awesome at healing!" Gilbert said, then winced as Ludwig tapped gently on one of his scars. "Ow, ow, fucking _ow_! Okay, West, okay! I'll fucking stay here… OW!"

"I'm not touching you anymore." Ludwig said quizzically.

Gilbert glanced behind him. "Well, then who—?"

"This is for pushing me around, kraut breath!" Lovino laughed, poking him everywhere on his injured back.

Gilbert quickly snatched up his hands. "That would not be wise of you when we share the same tent, ja?"

And Lovino, though grudgingly, stopped, grumbling under his breath.

"All right," Alfred said, examining the group. "You guys be careful and bring my daughter back safely, okay?"

"Shí," Yao said.

"Hai, Alfred-san." Kiku dipped his head.

Ludwig just nodded.

"All right," Alfred sighed. "Off you go then. And if my daughter returns with any sort of injury, I won't hesitate to throttle you."

"Alfred!" Matthew snapped.

"Just kidding." Alfred laughed weakly and gave his daughter another side hug, Marge's gun still out, but no longer aimed at him. "Stay safe, sweetheart."

"Thanks," Marge said and moved away from him, brown eyes meeting blue. "Love you, Daddy."

"I love you too, baby."

"See you soon."

"I'd better."

Marge smiled for the first time since Ruby's death and Alfred concluded there and then it was one of the most beautiful things he had ever seen since the horrors of the Uprising.

Marge looked as if she was going to say something but closed her mouth and turned to follow Ludwig, Yao, and Kiku, giving her father a wave before disappearing among the trees on the path to town.

"She'll be fine, lad." Arthur assured, placing a hand on Alfred's shoulder.

"Yeah," Alfred said. "I know. I raised her, after all."

Arthur scoffed and led Alfred back to the center of the camp. "Whatever. Let's get that shoulder of yours bandaged and check Gilbert and Romano's wounds. Now that we have proper medicine we'll be able to treat you all properly."

"Artie?"

"Yes, Alfred?"

"I'm still hungry."

Arthur snorted. "You always are, git, but we can't eat anything until Marjorie and the rest come back with the stupid can opener we were all too stupid to think about picking up."

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Fucking can openers. Why can't they have Edward Scissorhands with them?... Except, you know, he'd be Can...opener...hands... LAME.


	30. Ambush

**Back into the town of death we go, tralalalalaaa~!  
**

Warning: Angst, insults, threat using a weapon other stuff...

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Ambush**

"God, finally!"

Marge appeared from an aisle, holding up a can opener with a victorious smile. "Holy crap! I thought I'd never find one among all the debris and everything. The people who swept through here before us nearly cleared this whole place out!"

"Ja," Ludwig said. "Put it in your bag. I would like if we could get out of here as fast as possible." He held his gun at the ready as he peered cautiously around the store.

"Shì," Yao agreed, hefting his wok in his hand. "It not wise to linger in a place too long if we already faced dangers close by." He turned to the door. "Kiku! Is everything clear?"

Silence.

"… Kiku?" Yao had paled considerably as the younger nation continued not to respond.

"Oh no…" Marge muttered, taking out her rifle.

"There is another door." Ludwig said quietly. "We can go out that way."

Yao looked at him as if he was crazy. "But Kiku is still out there. He may be in trouble!"

"Nein!" Ludwig snapped as Yao began to walk toward the front doors. "Kiku is fast and good at getting out of things. He'll meet up with us when we've gone out the side door. He will be waiting for us there if he still knows strategy well."

"He could be hurt!" Yao flashed back, his knuckles white on the handle of his wok. "I cannot leave him out there to be captured."

"Yao, no!" Ludwig called, but Yao was already heading toward the doors.

Ludwig had no choice. Yao would make it through the doors before he could, so he motioned for Marge to follow him. "And keep your rifle ready." he warned.

They joined up with Yao who had abruptly stopped to look around. Ludwig put a cautious hand on his shoulder as he did so, and Yao stepped through the shattered glass door frames.

Ludwig breathed a sigh of relief as well as Marge. The way was clear: the streets were empty as well as the length of the building. But there was still one thing missing.

"Where is Kiku?" Yao asked anxiously, eyes darting around.

"Maybe he's on top of the building keeping watch?" Marge suggested

"Ja, maybe—wait a second." Ludwig had watched many horror movies in his life and he always knew the one place the victims neglected to look: up.

Just then, they heard the anxiously high-pitched voice of Kiku yelling from above: "Run! It's a trap!"

But before he could tip his head up to examine the top of the building, there was a rustling and the sound of dozens of feet dropping to the ground behind them. Guns were cocked and Ludwig did not turn. They were caught.

"So," came a sly male voice. "You decided to come back for more, eh?"

* * *

"Ow! Be careful, Mattie! It's tender back there!"

"Stop shouting, Gilbert, you'll attract attention."

They were all sitting or standing around the clearing, watching the day's current spectacle: Matthew trying to pick glass shards out of Gilbert's back while the man writhed and groaned in pain.

Gilbert flinched as the Canadian continued to dig through the damaged layers of his flesh. When he got the glass shard halfway out though, Gilbert whimpering, Matthew felt his stomach heave.

He might skin animals and rid them of their organs but for some reason he couldn't seem to not get sick when dealing with human injuries.

Matthew tried to hold down a heave and said, "Uh… Arthur? Could you please take over from here? I don't feel well…"

"What is wrong, lapin?" Francis asked with concern. "As-tu malade?"

Matthew looked meekly at him. "Non, non, père. I just…" Matthew chanced a glance at Gilbert's desecrated back again and held down another heave. "I tend to get a little queasy when it comes to blood…"

"But I've seen you skin and de-gut animals, brah." Alfred said with a cock of his head.

Matthew shook his head. "Animals are… different."

"Different? Pfft!" Alfred walked over to Gilbert and Arthur who was now kneeling behind the Prussian. "What's so different? Here, Artie, I'll help. I'm not a pussy."

Matthew scowled at him. "Humans have emotions! And no, Alfred, get away from him!" Matthew lunged forward to pull his brother back by the shoulder. "I'm not a pussy either. How do you think I made it all the way here? By being a chicken?"

Alfred gave him a confused look. "Dude, I can totally help him. I've dealt with these kinds of injuries before!" He ignored the last part, much to Matthew's annoyance.

" _No_ , you can't." Matthew said through gritted teeth. " _I_ would know. You don't happen to remember that time when we were little and I got a scrape and you wanted to play doctor?"

Alfred smiled nostalgically. "Oh yeah, you climbed the fence to get our ball from our neighbor's yard. Damn, you were clumsy."

Matthew scoffed. "Only because you _insisted_ I climb the fence instead of asking the neighbors to get it. And once I fell, you decided to break out some scissors and try to dig all the dirt out of the cut."

Francis looked at Alfred in disbelief. "Why did you not think to tell me?"

"Us," Arthur growled temperamentally as he picked the glass out of Gilbert's wounds. "It was a play date, remember? … And the only one, mind you…"

"Well if you were his caretaker, why did you not teach Alfred to come to you if there was an accident?" Francis asked.

Arthur snorted. "He had tons of 'accidents.' If I told him to come to me whenever there was something wrong, I wouldn't get any peace. Mind you I _still_ wasn't getting peace with all of his nightmares…"

"I _did not_ have nightmares, bro!"

"Oh, shut it already, git."

"You mean, you just let him do whatever he wanted and as long as he was out of your way, you were fine?" Francis asked incredulously.

"No!" Arthur replied offensively. "I was never that negligent with him!"

Francis rolled his eyes. "And I guess _that's_ why he broke away from you…"

Arthur was about to make a heated rebuttal, but gave an aggravated grunt as he dug particularly deep, Gilbert arching and yelping in pain. When he got the shard out and tossed it away, Arthur muttered, "How dare you accuse me of being a bad brother?"

Ivan scoffed coldly. "Alfred was a rebel, nyet? What do you suppose made him that way, comrade?"

At this, Arthur stood and glared at Ivan. "Say that one more time and I'll knock you one."

Ivan gave a smug smile. "Heheh, I will not object to that, but I doubt you will get very far before I knock you out."

Arthur continued to glare at him, Ivan smiling his fuck-you smile, unblinking, until he gave a great huff and crouched down, returning to probing Gilbert's back for shards.

"U-uh, wait there, tea cozy." Gilbert said quickly, arching away from his hands. "I don't think I want you anywhere near my back, ja?"

Arthur scoffed. "Whatever," He got up, rubbing his hands together and throwing a glance at Alfred.

"… I didn't think you were a bad brother…" Alfred murmured and scratched the back of his head in embarrassment.

Arthur's face brightened a bit. "Thank you, Alfred." Then he glared around at the rest of them. "Your opinion is all that matters." he spat venomously.

After a few moments of silence in which Arthur made a beeline for his tent and disappeared inside to sulk, Gilbert said, "Eh… could someone awesomely help me? I can feel blood running down my back. It is not an awesome feeling…"

Lovino, surprisingly, stepped forward. "Che, dumb bastard." And he knelt, taking up the bandages, soaked in disinfectant, from the bag beside him and wrapping them around Gilbert's back.

"Are all the shards out?" Gilbert asked hopefully, wincing as the medicine stung his scars, Lovino finishing up.

"Mostly," Arthur called from the tent somberly.

"You had better hope, crumpet-eater…"

"Stop bitching, potato bastard." Lovino snapped, pulling particularly hard on Gilbert's bandages and making him gasp. "At least _you_ can still function properly. I think my whole fucking arm is useless…"

"Lucky you, then." Gilbert flashed back with a laugh. "It's just another excuse for you to unawesomely refuse to do anything."

At this, the Italian 'accidentally' stabbed a deep wound on Gilbert's back, pushing his thumb in deeply for a few moments while Gilbert cried out and tried to wriggle away. "Sorry," Lovino mocked. "My fucking mistake."

"Hurry it along, Lovino." Matthew urged, feeling like he would be sick if Lovino continued. "We still have to get to your shoulder."

"All right, all right, damn." Lovino growled as he tied off the bandages. "There. You're done, bastard. Be grateful."

Gilbert quickly got to his feet, pulling his shirt down. "Grateful that you're not a doctor." the albino muttered, earning a scathing look from Lovino.

"How's my fratello?" Lovino asked Matthew. "Did you give him the pills?"

Matthew nodded, recalling the fever medication he had given the Italian as soon as he woke up. "Yes. He's resting for now."

Lovino walked over to the tent that Feliciano shared with Ludwig.

"Please try not to wake him." Matthew called after him. "He needs to sleep."

"Fuck," Alfred said. "I could sleep all day if I wasn't so goddamned hungry."

"We are all hungry, Alfred." Ivan grumbled.

Alfred huffed as he dropped, spread-eagle, onto the ground. "Fuck, I'm exhausted."

Sadiq scoffed. "Oh, stop acting like everyone else isn't. At least _you_ can still walk."

"How's your ankle, Sadiq?" Matthew asked with concern.

Sadiq flashed a somber smile. "Better than yesterday. Though it's gotten a bit stiff."

Matthew smiled in relief. "Well, that's good. At least it's not swelling or anything. After the others get back and we can eat, I'll give you some antibiotics. The mediciation will eat your stomach lining otherwise."

"I guess I shouldn't walk for a while, eh?"

"Yeah," Matthew replied. "I estimate it'll take you at least a couple of weeks to get back on your feet, and even then you'll still be limping. You're lucky the trap just got the muscle and not the bone. Someone will just have to help you get arou—"

Everyone tensed as sharp, distant blasts were heard. Alfred immediately sat up. "What the hell was that?"

"They sounded like gunshots." Ivan replied, hand wandering into his coat to grasp his rifle.

There was a rustling and the flap of a tent flipped open and Arthur stuck his head out. "Oh my God, that came from the direction of the town!"

Alfred produced his gun as quick as a flash. "Jesus Christ! I knew I shouldn't have let them go!" And he began to make his way to the path that led into town.

"No!" Matthew said, grabbing his brother around the waist and pulling him back. "We can't. It's too dangerous!"

"My daughter's out there!"

"No, Alfred." Arthur said firmly, darting from his tent to stand in front of the ex-colony with his arms spread wide. "This is what gets you into trouble—rushing into situations that you don't even know are worth rushing into."

There was another shot, this time closer. Alfred felt a pain pulse in his left shoulder.

Alfred glared maliciously at Arthur and raised his handgun, cocking it, aiming it at Arthur's forehead. "Get out of my way."

"Al!" Matthew snapped, trying to push his arm down, but it was locked in place.

Arthur stared in shock at him, then muttered, "You're being rash."

"I. Don't. Care." Alfred said through gritted teeth. "Now get _out_ of my way."

"I have more experience in this area than you do." Arthur said sternly, standing his ground and looking Alfred straight in the eyes. He would show this impudent brat! "You would do well to listen to me."

"Yeah, but _you_ don't have a daughter who's out there right now!"

"I have you," Arthur said, ignoring all the looks he received from around the camp. "And I don't want you to go out there when those four can handle themselves just fine and have the rebels see you. You'd be killed on the spot!"

Alfred seemed to think on it for a few moments, all the while everyone else standing with bated breath and weapons out and ready around the clearing.

Then, "Try and stop me." And he lowered his gun, shoving past Arthur who tried and failed to stop him.

"Ivan!"Arthur shouted desperately. "Stop him!"

Ivan, though, didn't even act as if he heard Arthur. "I am going with him. Yao-Yao and the others may need help."

Arthur looked incredulously at the Russian.

"Ja, you can't go without the awesome me!" Gilbert said, getting to his feet. _And I can check on West…_

"Don't even ask us." Lovino called from the tent. "You are all crazy dumbasses."

"Ve~What was that sound, Lovi?"

"Nothing, fratello, go back to sleep."

"I want to go." Sadiq said, trying to stand, but his ankle gave out and he slid down the trunk of the tree he had been leaning against.

"No, Sadiq," Matthew said, going over to him. "You have to stay here. And so do I. I have to make sure you're okay."

"I'll be fine! Honestly, I'm not made of glass."

"I'm staying here anyway."

"D'accord," Francis said, taking out his gun. "I'm going too."

"You're all mad!" Arthur exclaimed in disbelief. "We _can't_ go! If they see us—"

Just then, leaves rustled and heavy footsteps could be heard coming towards the camp through the trees. Everyone tensed and drew their weapons, aiming them in the direction of the sounds. In front of Sadiq, Matthew crouched, rifle at the ready.

"Alfred…" Arthur hissed, motioning for him to rejoin the group.

"No," Alfred hissed back. "I wanna face these bastards head-on."

They all waited for what seemed like hours when they heard panting, heavy footfalls, growling, and a dragging sound.

Then a figure emerged from the brush. Alfred raised his gun. "Hands up, you worthless sonofabitch!"

The man stiffened, then throwing his hands up as ordered, he said breathlessly, "Please… put down your gun, Alfred-san."

Alfred did just that. "K-Kiku…?"

"Hai," the smaller man said as another figure emerged from the surrounding trees. "Yao-sama, bring him over here."

"Who…?" Arthur asked warily.

Yao materialized out of the forest, wrestling with someone who was screaming at the top of his lungs, "Get the hell off me, bastard! Let me go!"

There was a _shing_ and Kiku was holding his katana to the scruffy man's throat. "I suggest you be still."

The man immediately stopped struggling, staring pathetically at Kiku. "P-please… d-don't kill me. Please, let me go! I won't tell them where you are, honest!"

"Who is he?" Alfred asked.

"I am wanting to know the same thing." Ivan said. "What is your purpose bringing this scum into our camp?"

Kiku looked at them, opening his mouth and closing it again, seeming unable to speak. Then, Ludwig appeared through the bushes, carrying something in his arms.

"What is—oh God." Arthur said, clapping a hand to his mouth.

* * *

Translations:

Shì-Yes

As-tu malade?-Are you sick?

A Word From the Writer: CLIFFHANGER FTW! Well, at least you know whatever it is, it's probably going to be bad. Until then, paranoia=overdrive.


	31. You Are My Sunshine

**This chapter is going to be a tear-jerker. Just a heads up to get your tissue box ready.  
**

Warning: Violence, a fight using weapons, someone is shot, threats, character death.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**You Are My Sunshine**

Matthew gasped and set his rifle down. Francis dropped his gun, but no one seemed to hear the loud clatter it made as it fell to the ground. The arrogant smirk Gilbert normally sported was gone; now his red eyes were wide in shock and he had nothing to say for once. Sadiq gave a sad groan and averted his eyes. Ivan's breath hitched and his expression turned from suspiciously smiling, to an intimidating frown. The Italies emerged from their tent. "What the fuck is going on out here? Feliciano is trying to—Buon Dio."

"Ve~What is it? Did you bring food?" Feliciano crawled out of the tent and tried to examine the scene, but he was immediately pulled into a tight embrace by Lovino.

"Ve~? Lovi? I can't see anything when you're holding me!"

"It's not for you to see." But Lovino's voice was trembling and breaking.

"Ve… why are you crying?"

"Shut up, idiot."

But Alfred's reaction was the worst of all. He just stood there, gun in hand, staring, open-mouthed and speechless.

Then Ludwig walked past Yao, Kiku, and the strange man into the middle of the camp. Everyone's eyes followed him as he crouched down and set the body gently down on the ground, then stood back.

Her eyes were open and glazed, her features were pale and ragged, her abdomen was bloody, but Marjorie was still breathing albeit with great effort.

"What… happened…?" Matthew asked, a lump forming in his throat at the sight of his niece lying so motionless on the earth.

Ludwig cleared his dry throat and forced himself to say. "We were ambushed."

_Just then, they heard the anxiously high-pitched voice of Japan yelling from above: "Run! It's a trap!"_

_But before he could tip his head up to examine the top of the building, there was a rustling and the sound of dozens of feet dropping to the ground behind them. Guns were cocked and Ludwig did not turn. They were caught._

_"So," came a sly male voice. "You decided to come back for more, eh?"_

_Ludwig knew he could do nothing to get out of the current situation. He pocketed his gun and put his hands on his head. He looked sternly at Yao and Marge until they both did the same._

_The man behind them chuckled. "Get their guns."_

_Another meeker man moved among them, groping in Ludwig's pockets before finding his gun and snatching Marge's rifle out of her hands. He bypassed Yao who did not look like much of a threat with his wok strapped to his back. Marge glared at him nastily until he tossed the weapons to his comrades and returned to his master's side._

_"Good, Higgins. They have nothing else on them?"_

_"Not that I could feel, sir, no." He leered at Marge and the state scoffed in disgust._

_"Kneel," the leader said and when they did not move, he repeated with a growl, "I said_ kneel _!" And he pushed Ludwig to his knees while Marge dropped also. It took encouraging for Yao to follow._

 _"Now," The man circled around to the three of them. He was tall and bulky with what looked like a bullet-proof vest on and a semi-automatic in his hands. "What are you four doing in a deserted town like this, hm? Not_ stealing _anything, surely?"_

_Marge scoffed. "I wouldn't call it stealing if everyone's already left this shithole."_

_The leader studied her for a moment. Then his face brightened. "Ah, I remember you. You're that wild girl who lives in a cabin twenty miles or so away from here. I do hope you remember me?"_

_"How could I forget an asshole like you?" Marge said with a smirk. "You've always been such a kind man, what with being the drunk of the town and also a thief and rapist. No, I would never forget a sonofabitch like you, Gordon."_

_He smiled. "For the drunk son of a bitch you hate, you remember my name well." He stopped in front of her and crouched so that his face was inches away from Marge's. Ludwig's muscles tensed, ready to lunge forward if Gordon made the wrong move._

_"What would it take to change your opinion of me?" Gordon asked gently. "What would it take for you to side with me?"_

_Marge scoffed. "I'm not some stupid hooker you can manipulate. How about this? I'll side with you when you stop being a dirty, violent bastard." And she spat in his face._

_Ludwig's stomach bottomed out. Gott, this was the worst time for Alfred's defiance to come out in Marge. It could get them all killed._

_Gordon blinked and wiped the spit off his face with the back of his hand. "Charming. You've always been so ladylike, Miss Moriah Jones. It's a wonder why you live alone in the woods and have no social life."_

_Marge let out a barking laugh. "Says the man who has no life whatsoever!"_

_Ludwig snapped when Gordon slapped her across the face and was about to lash out at the nearest guy next to him, but Yao was faster. He reached behind him and had his wok brandished in a flash, smashing the man who was holding him down right in the face. A spurt of blood and a couple of teeth quickly followed as well as outraged cries and the cocking of guns._

_Gordon ducked to avoid a knock to the head by Yao's wok and Yao ended up hitting, instead, a random rebel in the chest, knocking the breath out of him and cracking a couple of ribs._

_Ludwig heard men moving behind them and getting their weapons out. He felt the man behind him take his hands off his shoulders to take out his gun. But he didn't get the chance. As soon as the man's hands left him, Ludwig rose halfway and grabbed the man from behind, hearing him shriek in alarm as the German pulled the man over his head and slammed him on his back on the hard pavement. He thought he heard a crack emit from him, and he tried to ignore it as he turned to punch the man currently lunging toward him smack in the nose, blood gushing all over his fist and the man's face._

_Marge, meanwhile, had kicked a nearby man in the shin, causing him to drop their weapons amidst the melee. She picked up her rifle and threw Ludwig his handgun and Kiku his katana. Once she had her rifle, she proceeded to whack everyone in her way on the head or just about anywhere she could reach with the butt of her gun._

_Kiku, meanwhile, had been progressing well without his weapon. As soon as he saw Yao eye him, Kiku had readied himself for an all-out brawl. When the first strike of the wok fell, Kiku stomped on the foot of the man detaining him, making the man loosen his grip on him for a few crucial moments, during which Kiku had jumped out of his grip and used two fingers to jab the man in the neck and stomach. The man instantly seized up and fell, paralyzed by the assault on his pressure points_ (oh my God, it's Ty Lee!) _. Once he got his katana, though, things became easier for him. Two men tried to sneak up behind him, but Kiku knew what was coming. In one fluid movement, he stuck the tip of his katana into the earth and used it to propel himself up and over the heads of oncoming attackers. When he landed, the men were so confused, that they had no time to react as Kiku sliced into them with his sword. Blood splattered on his face and his clothes, but Kiku did not care. The scent and sight of blood only managed to ignite his feudal side._

_Meanwhile, Gordon had managed to back out of the fight and was yelling out instructions a couple or so yards away. "Yes! Walters, behind you! Punch that bastard's face in! Ingersoll, watch out on your left side! Yeah! Give him what for!"_

_Ludwig elbowed and punched his way through the throng of men until he was able to confront Gordon, who looked startled that he had not been stopped earlier._

_"Smith!" Gordon called for aid, his eyes wide as the German glared at him._

_"Only a coward hits a woman, hurensohn!" And Ludwig drew back his fist, using all the force in his arm to pound the man's nose into his skull. The man fell backwards onto his ass, holding his nose, but immediately scrambled to his feet again, stumbling out of the way of another punch by Ludwig._

_"Ludwig-san, leave him!" Kiku's voice shouted over the crowd. The Japanese man was currently slicing a line to Yao, who was swinging his wok alongside Marge._

_Ludwig nodded, then looked back at Gordon, who had fallen to the ground again on his hands and knees, blood pouring from his broken nose, a snarl on the German's face. "I will spare you, but that does not mean I don't think you are scum." And with that, Ludwig left Gordon behind as the man called off his group of rebels._

_"Retreat! Retreat back to base camp! We must regroup and treat our wounds!"_

_"But what about these bastards, boss?"_

_"We'll eventually find them, don't worry. I'll notify the Organization of their location."_

_"All right, boss."_

_The group of rebels began to pull away, but not before Yao felled two more with his wok and Kiku three with his katana. Ludwig grabbed a hold of Marge's wrist and proceeded to lead her back to the path that led to their camp, the two Asian nations defending them as they went._

_Just when it seemed that the fight was over, someone had handed Gordon a rifle and the man laughed maniacally as he aimed it at them. His nose had stopped bleeding, but it was crooked against his sooty face and sheets of blood had stained his front. "You think you Decievers can hide forever, eh? Well, I'll give you a small taste of what the Organization will do to you if they find you! And they will! Oh, they will…"_

_Ludwig stopped to turn around to watch as the crowd of rebels cheered their leader on. Gordon took aim at them and shot. The German was caught in a perpetual state of confusion and shock. He had three seconds to figure out what to do, and by that time the bullet had bypassed Yao's swinging wok and Kiku's slashing katana to lodge into Marge's abdomen._

_It took a moment for Marge (and everybody else) to realize she'd been hit. Only when a horrified expression crossed her features and she gave a wet cough, a bit of blood forming at the corner of her mouth, and she staggered backward, dropping to her knees, did Ludwig and Gordon realize she had been hit. She stared pointedly at Gordon, who was laughing hysterically, cheered on by his companions. "Ya see there, bitch!" he yelled. "Ya got whatcha deserved! Ya had it comin', but I took mercy on you and did it sooner! You can thank me later!"_

_Ludwig's shriek was caught in his throat as he pulled Marge to her feet and she immediately slumped into his arms. Finally he collected himself and called, "Yao! Kiku!"_

_Both Asian nations spun around and gave cries of terror as they beheld the young, semi-concious girl now leaning on Ludwig. "We have to get out of—!" But Ludwig was too late. Yao and Kiku were already racing toward the crowd, weapons raised and roaring with rage. Within a minute, they'd cut down a whole row of rebel men and the group was running away, though Gordon escaped. Yao and Kiku chased after them. Eventually, they tired of fighting (that and they'd run out of victims), so they grabbed the only straggler, dragging him back to where Ludwig still stood, holding Marge, the man kicking and yelling and begging._

_"Oh please! No! Please, let me go! I-I didn't hurt any of you—!"_

_Kiku responded by slicing the man across the shoulder. The man writhed and screamed—the man Ludwig identified as Higgins—and Kiku said dangerously, "Lies. Be silent."_

_"I say we kill him now." Yao growled, hefting his wok menacingly and making the man whimper._

_"Nein," Ludwig said anxiously. "We need to get back to camp. She will die if she is not treated soon."_

_"Hai," Kiku said. "Besides, it is fitting for a relative of the victim to exterminate the killer."_

_Higgins shrunk back and swallowed. "Ex-exterminate…?"_

_"I said_ be silent _." Kiku growled. And with that, the man promptly shut up._

 _"Let's go," Ludwig said, picking Marge up to carry her in his arms. The girl groaned with the harsh movement, blood soaking Ludwig's coat from her wound. "We must hurry."_ Alfred will kill me…

_And the three of them walked along in silence (Higgins was being dragged along by Yao), all of them knowing that Marge had a fatal wound but not wanting to voice it._

_Because if they_ did _voice it, that would mean her fate was final._

When Ludwig finished telling the story, everyone was silent for a moment as they took in the reality of the situation. Then, the German said ruefully, "I am sorry, Alfred. I should have done something." Guilt pooled into his gut and made his stomach churn. He was responsible for the death of an innocent young girl—no, a _state_. He could throw up.

"No, Ludwig, it's not your fault." Matthew said meekly, trying to make his voice steady. It wasn't working.

Alfred's eyes flashed dangerously as he whirled around to glare at Ludwig and pointed accusingly. "You… _You_! You bastard! I told you to keep my little girl safe!"

Ludwig threw up his hands in defense. "I did not mean for her to get shot!"

"Yeah, well, it damn well happened, didn't it?"

"Alfred," Arthur said, an undertone of warning in his voice. "He's already said he's sorry. There's nothing you can do to change—"

"Nothing I can do? I can pound the shit out of the person who's responsible!" Alfred growled, pocketing his gun and stalking menacingly over to Ludwig. The German was shocked at the confrontation, but prepared. He took off his cap and threw it on the ground, dropping his gun as well.

"You can fight me, ja." Ludwig said, and quickly continued before Gilbert could protest. "But I did not shoot her, so I doubt you will receive much satisfaction from it."

"Ve~? A fight?" Feliciano's excited voice rose, slightly muffled, from Lovino's smothering embrace. "I want to see! I want to see! Lovi, can I~?"

But Lovino only pushed his brother's face into his chest further, hoping that Feliciano could still breathe but not wanting him to see what would surely unfold. "No, dammit, you cannot see anything. Now shut up."

"We cannot resort to violence now, oui?" Francis said desperately, rooted to the spot.

Alfred stopped and thought for a moment. "You say that Gordon guy killed her?"

"Ja, he did."

"And he's still out there?'

"Ja, he is."

"That's all I need." Alfred said, brandishing his gun once more. "I'm going after the fucker."

"That's insa—!" Arthur began, but he abruptly as a soft moan emitted from Marge.

It could soon be made out that she was saying something, though weakly. "… ad… Dad…?"

Alfred dropped his weapon and was at her side in seconds. Ivan had never seen him move so fast before.

"Yes, baby? I'm here."

"Dad…" Marge cracked open her eyes and coughed. "Dad, don't…"

"Don't what, sweetheart?"

"Don't… go…"

"Go…? Oh no, honey, I'm not leaving you. At least not now. I'll hunt that bastard down later when you're feeling better."

Marge was silent for a moment. "Nn… hurts…"

Alfred stiffened and said, "I know, baby. Mattie!" Alfred turned desperately to his brother. "Couldja help her, bro?"

Matthew was pale and looked as if he'd be sick, but crouched down beside Alfred anyway. Now was not the time to vomit. "Y-yes, Al, maybe…" He grabbed Marge's hand and lifted it off of the bullet hole it was covering. Then he proceeded to hike up her shirt until he could see the wound. He winced. It was bloody, swelling an angry red, and… right where her stomach should be.

A feeling of dread filled Matthew and he glanced at his brother, who had a painfully hopeful look on his face, then back at his niece who was surely going through agony right now. Matthew took his hands from Marge and shook his head slightly.

It took a few moments before Alfred's face fell. "What?"

Matthew looked at him, feeling completely useless. "I'm sorry, Al. But… she's been shot in the stomach. The acid from her stomach is most likely mixing with her blood right now and… even if we can stem the massive blood loss she's already had, there's no way to cure her except through surgery and I simply do not have the equipment, nor am I willing to risk it. I'm so sorry…" His voice cracked and he let out a soft sob as he wiped at his eyes under his glasses. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry…"

Alfred felt like he should console his brother, but at the same time he felt like throttling him. Matthew was supposed to be the doctor, the savior, the reliable one! The… hero, as it seemed, in a situation where Alfred didn't have the capacity to be the hero. It made him feel helpless and angry and somewhat… betrayed. He felt like Matthew should have been able to at least do _something_. Even though deep down Alfred knew it wasn't any of the group's fault that his daughter was in this state, it still made him feel less guilty about his letting Marge go back into town when he knew deep in his gut that it was unsafe and risky. At least he wasn't blaming himself, because that felt worse than anything he'd ever felt before…

Except maybe grief, but he hoped he wouldn't feel that any time soon.

He felt his eyes burn, but he was determined not to let his daughter see. He didn't want to let her know of her ill health, even though she herself already knew. Alfred also didn't want her to see her father in such a wrecked state.

To help keep down the sobs he so wanted to spill at the moment, Alfred took his daughter's pale hand and held it firmly in his. "It's going to be all right, baby." _God, I'm such a liar._ But he just couldn't say she was dying, because that would mean that the statement was true.

Everyone gathered around, all somber. Ludwig had left his cap and weapon behind to stand beside Marge. Matthew had backed away some, trying to stem his helpless flow of tears and the string of 'I'm sorry's' coming from him. Francis sat and pulled Matthew to him to console him, all the while watching Marge closely, eyes wet and bloodshot. Arthur stood behind Alfred, being short enough (or Alfred tall enough) that he could stroke his hair. The feeling was familiar and soothing to Alfred, as it was the same thing Arthur did to calm him when he was a colony. Yao and Kiku were standing with their heads bowed, murmuring under their breaths, Yao still holding Higgins firmly who wisely did not make a sound. Sadiq had crawled over to sit next to Matthew, patting his knee and trying not to look at Marge. Ivan was looking at the ground, the frown still on his face.

There was a commotion between Lovino and Feliciano, in which the older Italian was trying to conceal Feliciano's vision.

"Stop!" Lovino hissed, wrestling with his brother. "Dammit… you-you don't want to see it, fratello."

"Ve~! Lovi, please, please, let me see! Why are you so sad? Everyone's so quiet…" He continued to squirm until Lovino no longer had the strength to restrain him.

There was a few silent moment's, then a heart-wrenching scream as Feliciano saw Marge's body stiff, and covered in blood, and he immediately broke out in tears. He sobbed into Lovino's uninjured shoulder, and the older Italian hugged him tightly, rubbing his back and crying himself, albeit quieter.

Alfred felt like the world had stopped. He could not save his little girl. This was the end for her. _So much for being the fucking hero…_ He hated himself for not being able to at least help. He hated himself for this whole thing, this whole Uprising.

He should never have let his children suffer like this.

Alfred took Marge's bloody hand and held it firmly. "Baby… I'm sorry."

Marge gave a small smile, blood trickling down the corner of her lip. "Don't be… Dad?"

"Yes, baby?"

"S-sing me a… a song…"

Alfred blinked in surprise. "What one, sweetheart?"

"That… that one." Marge said vaguely and coughed, more blood trickling down her lips. "That one you sang… when I was l-little…"

Alfred allowed himself a somber smile. "Of course, baby."

His voice wasn't the best since it was trembling slightly and his throat and nose were clogged with mucus, but he mustered his best and began softly:

 _You are my sunshine, my only sunshine_  
You make me happy when skies are gray  
You'll never know, dear, how much I love you  
Please don't take my sunshine away.

Alfred swallowed and went on, determined to fulfill Marge's last request. It was what she deserved, after all.

 _The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping_  
I dreamed I held you in my arms  
But when I woke, dear, I was mistaken  
So I hung my head and I cried.

Alfred's voice nearly broke on the last line, but he continued with a deep breath:

 _I'll always love you and make you happy,_  
If you will only say the same.  
But if you leave me and love another,  
You'll regret it all some day.

 _You told me once, dear, you really loved me_  
And no one else could come between.  
But now you've left me and love another;  
You have shattered all of my dreams.

 _In all my dreams, dear, you seem to leave me_  
When I wake my poor heart pains.  
So when you come back and make me happy  
I'll forgive you, dear, I'll take all the blame.

Alfred's voice was waning, but he took a couple of breaths and continued on, tears burning his eyes:

 _You are my sunshine, my only sunshine_  
You make me happy when skies are gray  
You'll never know dear, how much I love you  
Please don't take my sunshine away.

_Please don't take my sunshine away…_

Alfred couldn't hold the last note, as he gave a deep-chested sob and tears ran down his cheeks. He stroked Marge's hand with the thumb of his ungloved hand.

Marge looked at him through heavily-lidded eyes. "I… love you, Daddy."

Alfred gave another sob and sniffed, bringing up his daughter's hand and placing it against his cheek, not minding the sticky feeling of blood. "I know. I love you too, Montie."

Her breaths were getting shallow now, and she closed her eyes, knowing she was almost through. "No matter what, Dad… I want you to… go on, okay? Don't worry about me… you don't have to any-anymore…" Her lips quirked into a content smile. "The angels will come… to get me, Daddy… like you always said… they w-would."

Alfred's eyes were blurred with tears and everyone was so eerily silent, even Feliciano, who was watching Marge intently through swollen, red eyes. "Y-yes, baby, they will. They will and you won't hurt anymore. I promise, Marjorie, I promise." _I promise I'll kill that man, baby. I'll kill him for you._

"I… p-promise I-I'll look out for y-you, Daddy…"

"You don't need to, baby, just rest. J-just rest…" Alfred bit his lip to keep from crying.

Marge gave a slight jerk of her head, as if wanting to shake it but was too weak to do so. "No… I will. I promise you… Daddy… I p-promise…"

* * *

Translations:

Buon Dio-Oh my God

hurensohn-son of a bitch

A Word From the Writer: So... I looked up 'You Are My Sunshine' just for the hell of it and found that it is one of the most depressing songs EVUR. No wonder my mom only sang the first stanza to me when I was little, damn. Anywho, yes, my OC died already. She was short-lived, but awesome.

Let the soap opera continue!


	32. A Mess of a Man

**A shot of testosterone, anyone?  
**

Warning: Violent beating scene, threats, dark!America, yeah...

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**A Mess of a Man**

Alfred felt his whole world crash down around him when he felt Marge's hand go limp on his cheek and heard her last breath exhaled through her blood-stained lips. He was too shocked to do anything but sob, not caring if the others were around. The fact that he had let his baby girl walk into a death trap and could not save her… he had killed her, was devastating. After about five minutes of trying to pull himself together, he felt the warmth from her hand fade and folded her hands in place on her stomach. Matthew, who had recovered from his grief a bit, moved out of Francis's arms to crawl over to sit at his niece's head. With gentle, albeit trembling fingers, he closed her eyelids and peered up at Alfred. His face was red and splotchy and his eyes were swollen from the tears. "There… you see, Al? She's sleeping now. She's-she's sleeping…" A few more tears ran down his cheeks followed by quiet sobs.

"Come here, cher." Francis said, crawling up to sit next to Matthew and pulling him into a hug again.

Arthur felt his heart ache. He knew what it felt like to lose a child, yes, but… not like this. He ran his fingers soothingly through Alfred's honey-blond hair before deciding to sit next to him. The Briton took his brother's hand in his, and held it to his chest, trying to ward away tears from seeing Alfred in such a broken state. It was just like Alfred's civil war when he was being torn in two, but now—now it was just agony. Then, with alarm, Arthur noticed blood welling up through his sleeve on his shoulder.

"Alfred… your shoulder."

Alfred didn't even glance at it. "I-I know, Igs." He winced as the scar grew larger. "It-it happens when…" He let out another sob and reached up to stroke his daughter's cold cheek. "I love you, baby. I promise you, I won't let the bastard who did this to you get away with it. I'll make him pay. For you. I promise."

Worried, Arthur tugged on Alfred's arm. "A-Alfred…? We must arrange a burial before the rebels find us here. They might be regrouping at this very moment."

"I don't care if they're coming or not." Alfred said coldly, yanking his hand out of Arthur's grip. "I'm gonna give Montie a proper funeral. She deserves at least that."

Arthur was about to say something, but Alfred rose to his feet, slipping back on his gloves and picking his gun up off the ground where he had dropped it earlier. He wiped the blood off his face and made his way over to where Yao was standing, still muttering under his breath as he held Higgins captive. The man had gone silent, but he had the gall to glare at Alfred as he approached. That was, until Alfred aimed his gun at him.

"You," Alfred growled. "Tell me where your camp is so I can kill the bastard who did this to my daughter."

Higgins's eyes were wide, but he shook his head. "No… no I've been forbidden to."

Alfred came within a few feet of the man. He squatted down and glared the man in the eyes, unblinking, the barrel of his handgun pressed threateningly against his chest. "Tell. Me. Or I'll kill you."

"A-Alfred," Arthur quickly got to his feet. "No. They'll hear the shots!"

"Fuck if they hear it!" Alfred snarled. "I don't give a fuck if they track us down or not. At least then I'll be able to plant a bullet in this bastard Gordon's head."

Higgins swallowed and tried to scramble back, but Yao, who had stopped muttering, held him in place. "I-I can't, man! Please, you don't understand! He works for a higher power. He has connections. They'll kill me if they find me and find out I told you! They have eyes everywhere!"

"Don't give me that load of bullshit!" Alfred yelled, pressing the gun with almost bruising force into the man. "I don't give a flying fuck if they kill your sorry ass or not! The fact is that if you don't answer my question it'll be over much sooner for you. Now I suggest you _answer_ unless you want a chest full of lead!"

"Al," Matthew said shakily. "Please don't be so violent…"

"I don't give a damn!" Alfred flashed back, never taking his eyes off the man in front of him. "This man works for the guy who killed my daughter and any person who thinks he's such a hero as to follow him has no reason to live in my opinion!" Alfred's voice lowered dangerously and he said, "Don't push me. I won't feel guilty if I take your life. Not at all."

Everyone was quiet. Higgins began to tremble and sweat. "P-please… please, someone, help!" he began to yell at the top of his lungs. "Help! I'm here! Please, help me! Gordon! I'm here!"

Alfred was about to tell Yao to silence him, but the Chinaman was already on it. He bashed the man on the back of his head with his wok and Higgins immediately seized up and collapsed.

"Is he dead?" Alfred asked, not sure if he wanted it to be true or if he wanted the man to be alive to answer his question.

Yao shook his head. "Méiyǒu, Alfred. I have only knocked him out."

Alfred suddenly felt a hot anger boil up inside of him. "Sonofabitch tried to get us caught. The coward. He doesn't even deserve to be knocked out."

Ivan caught the dangerous undertone in Alfred's voice. "Alfred… you are not to be doing anything hasty, da?"

"Hasty?" Alfred asked with a scoff. "This bastard helped kill my daughter. You think I haven't had enough time to think about what I wanna do to him?"

"Alfred," Arthur said warily. "I know what you're thinking, but it won't solve anything. It would only make Higgins's group angrier with us."

Alfred was silent for a moment, pondering while anger raged inside him. "Unless they don't recognize him."

Alfred gave Yao a look that warned the older nation to move away. He did, taking his wok with him.

Then, everything seemed to spill over. The frustration, the anger, the guilt, the grief, the urge for vengeance. It all seemed to seize Alfred's body and mind and he felt an explosion in his gut. _This_ man was one of _them_. One of those _murderers_. And unless he rid his country of this one man here and now, it was just one more man who would oppose him or might kill another one of his states in the end.

Alfred picked up the limp man by the collar of his filthy shirt and drew back his fist, the whole power of his body behind it.

"Al!" Matthew burst out, but the first punch had already fallen.

And it didn't stop. Alfred couldn't. He was blinded by hate—the most powerful human emotion next to love. And he was doing this _for_ someone he loved. So it only made sense.

But he was no human. And as so, he didn't stop. He didn't even think. All he knew was that this fucker had to die and he was much obliged to do it. Dammit, he wished the man could be awake as he did this. He wanted the man to experience what no doubt many other victims of his group had—what his daughter had.

He aimed for the area he never wanted to see again: Higgins's face. Alfred eventually dropped him and proceeded to pound the man's face in with his fists. Blood was splattering on his shirt, neck, and cheeks, his knuckles were surely bruised, and the man was surely dead by now, but Alfred didn't care. All he wanted was for the man to pay, even though he was not awake and probably no longer alive to witness it.

"Al!" Matthew called. "Please, stop!" He was crying again and he looked away, feeling bile rise in his throat. Francis joined him, holding him so that he wouldn't be able to see. Lovino, meanwhile, had coaxed Feliciano back into their tent and quickly followed after him. Sadiq was frozen where he sat, wincing with every blow dealt as if it was himself being struck. Kiku was staring with wide eyes in Alfred's direction, barely breathing. Ludwig was standing with his hand on his gun, which he had retrieved from the ground, while Gilbert had one hand on his shoulder, shaking his head and staring in shock. Ivan stood off to the side, getting the full view of what was happening. He was used to seeing this, yes, but not from Alfred. He wanted to say something, but the words caught in his throat and all he could do was watch as the man's face was totally mangled by Alfred's unyielding fists, a fire in Alfred's eyes he had never seen before.

Alfred did not answer his brother. He kept going. Kept hitting. He was determined to take away something as equally precious from the man as he had taken from his daughter: his identity. Yao eventually backed away, hand on the handle of his wok in case Alfred came after him next. And all the while, Arthur watched this, his gut twisting, his heart pounding, having an out of body experience from seeing Alfred become so suddenly violent. Sure, the man had aided in the killing of his daughter, but no one deserved a death like this. Alfred was no murderer… right? He was just… getting compensation.

Arthur felt his eyes burn. His little Alfred was killing someone, and he was just standing by idly, letting it happen. In all his years, he had never thought that Alfred would ever become a murderer, at least not using his own two hands. And it was scaring the absolute shit out of Arthur, not because he felt like he might be next, but that if he allowed Alfred to continue until he'd had his fill, Alfred would simply not be Alfred anymore. And for all the things Arthur had ever said about wanting Alfred to change, he did not want him to change like this. Never like this.

He would not allow him to become a mindless murderer.

So he took a few cautious steps forward. "A-Alfred…?"

But the American did not respond. His blows seemed to get even harder and come faster, as if Alfred was at his peak, as if he was determined to totally mash the man's face flat.

Then Arthur darted forward, deciding to take the risk no one else was taking and grabbing Alfred on the shoulder.

"Alfred," he pleaded, willing his legs to stop trembling. "Please, stop. He's dead." _He was dead a long time ago…_ Arthur wanted to add, but he could not for the lump that was forming in his throat. When Alfred still did not stop pounding the man's face in, Arthur raised his voice and said, "Alfred, please!"

And that seemed to stop Alfred. The American dropped the man whose face now looked like nothing more than a hollowed skull full of hamburger meat, bits of shattered bone, and blood. There was nothing left. No eyes, no nose, no mouth. Even the bone was gone. Arthur felt his stomach lurch when the man's head fell limply back, his neck broken, the head barely hanging on by tendon and skin. But as soon as Alfred had dropped the man who could have been anybody, who was now unidentifiable, he swiveled around in a flash, a mad gleam in his eye. This frightened Arthur to the core, but he received another shock when Alfred drew back his fist and clocked him hard in the nose. Arthur cried out, tears streaming down his cheeks as blood gushed from his nose. He quickly tried to stem the flow with his hands as Francis left Matthew to come running over to pull Arthur away from Alfred safely into his arms.

When there was nothing else to hit, when no one in their right mind would come near Alfred, the American finally caught his breath and came back to his senses. He had felt like the whole time he was beating the man that he was not even himself anymore, not even in his own body. It was scary, but nothing was scarier than looking at the damage he'd done to Higgins, something like a monster would do, and then he looked at his big brother. And that's when his stomach dropped out. He had _hit_ Arthur. He had truly wanted to _hurt_ him. He had never wanted that despite all the things he'd said or did in the past. Alfred was supposed to be the hero, but his temper had gotten the better of him and he even lashed out at someone he cared about, someone who confessed not even eighteen hours ago that he had always wanted the best for him.

But then came the worst realization of all.

Alfred was no hero.

He was a murderer. No better than the man he had just killed and definitely not any better than those rebels or even Gordon.

He felt like he was too dangerous to be around and he also felt… sick.

Alfred examined his bloody hands and his eyes moistened. "Oh… oh, God…"

And that was when he decided he'd rather not hurt anyone anymore. At least not anyone he loved. So, he turned and stepped over Higgins's body. He tried not to look at it, but he felt he had to, like he had to take responsibility for what he'd done. And when he did look at the bloody corpse, Alfred put a hand to his mouth as his stomach heaved.

Alfred faintly heard his name being called as he ran into the trees. By who, he did not know nor did he care. All that he cared about was that he was far enough away not to hurt anyone. And he was too busy throwing up all the food he had in his stomach, thinking with another sickening heave, that the vomit looked similar to the mess of a man he had created, he had left, back at the camp.

Maybe he was just as much a mess on the inside and only now had he realized?

* * *

Translations:

Méiyǒu-No

A Word From the Writer: Wow, America cracked. Like, completely. I found I LOVE writing dark!America. Sometimes you just wanna kill a character and kill him good... using America, of course. America=berserk. You all knew it would happen, though. Right?

Btw, I'll be leaving on Tuesday (6/25/13) to go to Iowa for a wedding. Yeah, Iowa, where half my family lives. You know, the boring-ass place where all you do is get lost in cornfields? Yeah, THERE. Anyway, I probably won't be returning for at least twelve days (7/6/13). But I'll be taking my laptop and (unless a semi runs us over on the way *knocks on wood*) I'll be updating, albeit maybe a little haphazardly. Sixteen-hour car trip, here I come!


	33. The Day That Angels Sing

**More sad stuff. And a cute little flashback to cut through the grief.  
**

Warning: RusAme, fluff (sort of), sad stuff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**The Day That Angels Sing**

"Are you okay, ami?" Francis was asking frantically.

"Y-yeah, I'm fine. It's not broken." Arthur replied, still holding his bleeding nose. "Alfred! Alfred!" When no one answered, Arthur said, "Let me go find him. The stupid git will get lost in no time." But the grip Francis had on his upper arm was firm.

"Non, ami. You are hurt."

"I'm not made of fucking glass, frog! It's not like I've had my legs severed from the knees down!"

"I'll go find him, Arthur." Matthew said quickly and disappeared into the trees.

As Francis forced Arthur to sit down and tended to his nose, everyone else's attention turned to the girl lying motionless in the middle of the camp.

Surprisingly, it was Ivan who spoke first: "We should make a grave, da?"

Everyone nodded and Ivan took his shovel out from his coat and walked around the clearing a bit, holding the shovel on his shoulder. After a few moments of silence during which no one moved except for Ivan, the Russian stuck the blade of the shovel into the ground beneath the same blooming smoketree under which Ruby was buried.

"Here would do, da?"

"We should wait for Alfred-san." Kiku said. "He should get say."

"Da, I will do that."

"Alfred?" Matthew called out, making his way through the underbrush. "A-Alfred? Where are you?"

There was a retching sound followed by soft sobbing. Matthew quickly wove his way between the trees until he was standing before a hunched over Alfred.

Matthew sighed at the state his brother was in. "Oh Alfred,"

Alfred flinched, looking up. "M-Mattie?"

"Yes, Al, it's me."

"No!" he replied sharply, making the Canadian jump. "G-get away from me! P-please… I-I don't want to hurt anyone."

Matthew ignored the order and came to stand beside him, putting a hand on his back. "You won't hurt me."

"I hurt Artie!"

"He's fine," Matthew said, then laughed softly, despite all that had happened. "Trust me, he can take a hit. That hasn't been the worst thing he's been dealt."

But Alfred was far from amused. He pushed Matthew back from him as he turned his head and retched again, the vomit consisting now of only stomach bile.

Matthew rubbed his back and waited until Alfred had finished before saying, "Al, you can't just run off like that. What if we never found you? What if you got lost?"

Alfred coughed and stood, leaning against a tree, his chest heaving in fatigue and grief. "So what? You'd all be safer without me anyway…"

Matthew shook his head. "No, we'd all be _lost_ without you. We _are_ in your country, you know." Then he added as he took Alfred's bloodied hand. "And if you died, I would be devastated. You know that. Your states would go with you."

A few more tears slipped down Alfred's cheeks before he wiped them grudgingly with the back of his hand. "I can't do this anymore, Mattie. First Artie, then you, then Marge… you're all in danger and I can't protect you."

Matthew sighed and pulled his brother into a hug. He felt Alfred's chest heave, and the American hugged him back, tightly, possessively.

"Alfred, I love you, but you can't do everything. Let us take care of ourselves for once. You can't take responsibility for every bad thing that comes along. You need to take care of yourself for a bit, okay?"

Alfred sniffed and parted from Matthew, letting out a shaky breath. "Okay…"

Matthew gave him a weary smile and tugged Alfred by the arm back in the direction of the camp. "Good. Now come on. We need to bury Marge before those guys show up and ruin the funeral."

Alfred let out another shaky breath, but held back tears. "A-all right…"

They arrived back at camp and immediately, everyone's eyes went to them.

Alfred tried his best to look composed, but upon seeing the lifeless body of his daughter, he nearly broke down in tears again. "Let's move her."

Alfred stooped to pick her up, cradling her in his arms, trying not to look at her pale, bloody face as he took her over to the spot where Ivan had dug her grave. He stopped, looking down into the ground, biting his lip, thinking this was going to be the last time he would see Marge again, and that he was forced to leave her out in the middle of the wilderness under this smoketree that he could easily never locate once they left.

Sensing his hesitation, Ivan put out his arms, prompting Alfred to hand Marge over. Ivan then crouched to lay her cold form gently into the hollow, standing back up. "There. She will be at peace now, da?"

"Yeah," Alfred said, his voice raspy and his throat sore from crying.

Ivan swallowed, wanting to hold Alfred, but fearing that he would cause the American even more pain by revealing their closeness. As so, he just stood there and watched, feeling helpless—a feeling he'd felt so many times throughout his own history and absolutely loathed—as Alfred tried his best to hold back tears but did not succeed.

No one said anything for a long while. They all just stood there, staring down at Marge's delicate body in the grave. Sadiq was even standing, supported by Ludwig, his face pale and his expression shocked. That could have been _him_ in there.

Alfred wanted to say something and knew he should, but he did not want to. If he said his goodbyes, then that would mean that it was over—that Marge's life had been snuffed out for good and then Alfred would have to bear the sight of seeing his daughter's precious body covered in earth, knowing he'd never see her smile again, knowing he'd never hear her voice again, hear her laugh. A knot twisted in his stomach and all Alfred wanted to do was drop to his knees and scream, not caring if anyone heard.

His knees buckled with shock, threatening to give out, but a hand on his shoulder steadied him. Alfred glanced beside him and saw Arthur looking at him with a sad strength behind his green eyes. Alfred let out a soft sob, a few more tears slipping down his face, and placed his hand over his brother's squeezing it. Arthur took Alfred's hand, presuming it made no difference now if he did, and held it at his side, squeezing softly back.

" _Alfred!" Arthur called, running out of the cottage and through the garden._

_"Big brother!" Alfred laughed, swinging from the branches of a blooming apple tree. "Look! Look! I finally climbed it!"_

_Arthur arrived at the tree and threw out his arms. "Alfred! What did I tell you about climbing trees? You could get hurt. Now come down this instant!"_

_Alfred scooted closer to the trunk and drew up his legs, shaking his head. "No! I just got up here. You should come up too, Artie! I can see the town from here!" He shielded his eyes from the setting sun with his hand, staring off into the distance with a triumphant and wondering smile._

_Arthur sighed in frustration and said, "Alfred, if you don't get down right now, you will not come into town with me tomorrow."_

_Alfred pouted and whined, "Aw! But I like the sweet shop there…"_

_"Then you'll have to do without. Come down."_

_"No!" Alfred said determinedly, though he looked as if he was second-guessing his decision._

_Arthur huffed and began, "One,"_

_"No…"_

_"Two,"_

_"Okay, okay! I'm coming…" Alfred huffed as he straddled the trunk, sliding down it a few feet before losing his hold on a branch and slipping off. He gave a frightened yelp as he fell, and Arthur felt his heart leap into his throat as he darted forward, arms outstretched._

_There was a big 'Oof' and they both hit the ground backward. The dead weight of Alfred had knocked the breath completely out of Arthur, and the Briton refilled his lungs just in time to see his ward twisting around on top of him, looking him in eyes with an expression that was so shocked and bewildered that Arthur had to laugh. It was more out of relief, really._

_At this, Alfred smiled and laughed too, the prepubscent boy clambering off his brother and sitting cross-legged beside him._

_When Arthur calmed his laughing fit, he said, "Honestly, I don't know how I've kept you from seriously hurting yourself for all these years. And yet, I still don't know what to do with you." He rolled over and stuck his elbow in the dirt—whatever, he'd wash this shirt anyway later, it wasn't like Alfred did the laundry—propping his head up with his hand and looking at Alfred seriously. "You'll get yourself into trouble some day acting so foolhardy, you know that?"_

_They both stared at each other for a few more moments before they broke out laughing again. Then Alfred's face fell. "But, you'll be there to help me if I do, right?"_

_Arthur stopped laughing and smiled softly. "Of course, Alfred. I will always be there. That you can trust."_

_Alfred giggled and Arthur stood, brushing the dirt off of himself and offering his hand to Alfred. "Come on. Supper's getting cold."_

_Alfred smiled and eagerly got to his feet, brushing his soiled hands on his pants. Arthur didn't like it when his hands were dirty._

_But Arthur also didn't like when Alfred's clothes were dirty. Though he doubted the young boy knew that, as he kept ruining his garments. Arthur sighed and shook his head, smiling, "No more going anywhere without me, okay?"_

_Alfred's face fell a little bit, but his cherubic smile quickly followed. "Okay," And the boy took his hand, squeezing softly and Arthur squeezed back, knowing it was a little game Alfred had created and liked to play._

Tears edged Arthur's eyes with the memory, but he willed them away. He would be strong for the both of them. He'd promised Alfred that.

Then, finally, Alfred sniffed and muttered, "I… I really don't know what to say."

"Say what you remember, Alfred." Arthur said, once again squeezing Alfred's hand in support.

"All right," Alfred's voice was wavering, but he took a deep breath and exhaled. A moment passed before he began, "She was one of the most beautiful things I had ever seen in my life. Even when I first met her, I knew she was mine, and I loved her immediately. Marge was so bright and full of life," at this, his voice broke, but he quickly regained it and continued, "Yet so fierce and independent. She reminded me of me. I knew then that she was special, I knew then that she was a state. She was perfect. Marge always loved the woods. It was her home, where she felt most comfortable. When I asked if she wanted to go to the city with me, she would refuse, even in the middle of winter when her only source of heat was from the fireplace in her cabin. Needless to say I always worried about her, being out here on her own. I knew she had Ruby, and many more dogs over the years, but that wasn't enough. I made it my responsibility to come check on her every once in a while." Alfred laughed sadly and a tear trailed its way down his cheek. "Damn, she hated that. But she was my baby. And I couldn't let her live isolated forever, though that was how she liked it. Her siblings, though she did not know them as much as I would have liked her to, looked after her from afar, no matter how annoying she said it was for them to fuss over her for no reason."

He paused, gathering his thoughts, before saying, "I remember when Mattie got her that gun." Nearby, Matthew gave a wet laugh. "I was scared to bits. But when I saw my little girl shooting and saw how happy it made her, I was glad for her. And I wish I could have shown her more support in her shooting when she was alive. I knew how much she wanted to make me proud, despite wanting to keep to herself." He took a deep breath. His legs were shaking now, and he squeezed Arthur's hand again to make sure this wasn't all just some sick dream. Arthur squeezed back and a sick feeling knotted in Alfred's stomach. "I wish I could have kept her longer, but I guess He'll take you whether you like it or not. I just wish it could have happened differently. Marge didn't deserve to die like this. No one does.

"But I'm also happy. At least I know now that she's safe. I don't have to look after her anymore. This'll be the day that angels sing, because they'll enjoy her there just as much as me and whoever else who knew her did. They'll love her up there."

Alfred was trying to force down sobs, squeezing Arthur's hand as hard as he could, making the Briton wince. But Arthur dare not let go lest he lose Alfred and break his promise.

Then Ivan said, "Is there anything else to be said?"

"Hai," Kiku stepped forward and kneeled before the grave, dipping his head to avoid looking at the body. He then ran his finger through the soft earth in a pattern, reciting a poem:

 _Autumn wind of eve,_  
blow away the clouds that mass  
over the moon's pure light  
and the mists that cloud our mind,  
do thou sweep away as well.  
Now we disappear,  
well, what must we think of it?  
From the sky we came.  
Now we may go back again.  
That's at least one point of view…(1)

Kiku continued to mutter as he drew shapes in the soil. When he was finished, he got up and bowed. When he walked away to join the crowd, he revealed the characters inscribed in the dirt:

空から私達が来た。今、私たちは再び戻ることができる。

No one asked what it meant—they all had an idea of what it meant anyway.

After a few moments passed, Ivan looked around and said, "Anyone else?"

Silence.

"очень хорошо," And he shoveled soil onto the grave.

Afterward, the crowd still lingered, but everyone eventually stepped forward to offer their farewells and left for their tents as it was getting late and the rebels had yet to appear. They were all too tired and saddened to move camp at the moment. Eventually, Feliciano came out, followed by Lovino, and, once he was told what had happened, cried for a very long time before gathering a bundle of wildflowers and putting them upon the grave. He would have fallen asleep there from exhaustion from crying so much that day, but Lovino helped him back into the tent.

Alfred was ultimately the last one there, having told Arthur to leave and get some rest, though the Briton did so reluctantly. Ivan came up behind him and said, "You cannot stay here forever, Alfred. She is better now, da?"

Alfred nodded sadly and wiped his eyes with his arm before turning around and letting Ivan lead him back to their tent. "Yeah, I guess she is." When they arrived, Ivan urged Alfred in, the American giving him a crestfallen look when he didn't follow. "You're not coming to bed?"

Ivan smiled at the way Alfred put it, but he shook his head. "Nyet. I will keep watch."

"Will you still come to bed, though?" Alfred really needed the comfort right now, and he hated to admit he was soothed by the idea of getting it from his former rival.

Ivan nodded. "I will,"

Alfred sniffed and slipped into his sleeping bag. Ivan lingered outside the tent until he heard his steady breathing which told the Russian that Alfred was asleep. Then he walked over to the edge of the camp where the bloody mess of the man Alfred had beaten to death earlier still lay. He picked it up and went away into the forest with it, disposing of it far away from the camp in a shallow grave and making sure to thoroughly wash his hands in the river before joining Alfred in the tent. The younger nation, though fast asleep, curled up to Ivan, fingers digging into the cold skin on the Russian's chest, clinging to Ivan as if he was the only thing he had left to hold onto.

* * *

Translations:

空から私達が来た。今、私たちは再び戻ることができる。-We came from the sky. Now we can go back again.

References:

1-A death poem composed by Hōjō Ujimasa before committing seppuku. I thought it was nice when I read it, but as for the history... yeah, it kind of makes it all the more depressing. Just ignore that part and enjoy the poem! (Was it geeky of me to look up how Sengoku Basara portrayed him? ... Nah!)

A Word From the Writer: Nu, it's so SAD! Our boys have now got a touch of reality (well, more like suckerpunch) which will turn the angst meter up big time. And yay for RusAme fluffy times. Does America look like a kitty cuddling up to Russia like that? Probably. XD

Btw, posting this early because I'm busy. You lucky dogs.


	34. A Can of Worms

**Out of the frying pan and into the fire.  
**

Warning: Sadness, angst, threats, some RusAme fluff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**A Can of Worms**

When Alfred woke the next morning, opening his eyes and squinting at the sunlight that was streaming through the tent material, he felt shaken but renewed.

He didn't want to get up. Not yet. That nightmare he'd had about Marge getting shot and dying was still fresh in his mind. And him beating that man to a pulp… Alfred rolled over, and looked across the tent.

Then it all came flooding back to him.

His gloves… they were there and they were bloody. His skin felt dry and itchy with blood and tears. But he was too scared to go any farther in his assumptions, fearing that what he believed to be his nightmare was reality. Instead, he turned back over and shook Ivan's shoulder.

The Russian grumbled a bit in annoyance, shirking away from him before finally cracking his eyes open. Ivan exhaled and asked groggily, "What is it, Alfred?"

Alfred could feel his chest grow heavy with his suspicion and dread. He blinked at Ivan for a few moments before muttering, almost too afraid to say it, lest it be proved true, "Is she gone?"

Ivan's eyes opened wider and a sad look settled on his features. When he placed a hand on Alfred's arm, rubbing it gently, the American knew what was coming and tears stung his eyes. "Da, Alfred. I am sorry."

Alfred bit his lip and looked away, trying to hold in sobs as tears rolled down his face. His fingers clenched the sleeping bag and tore through the material, struggling to cope with his grief.

Ivan felt so awkward lying beside Alfred—in the same sleeping bag, no less—and watching him break down. In previous years, Alfred would have never even given him the chance to see him like this. But in another sense, Ivan felt that this was strangely intimate, that Alfred trusted him enough to cry in front of him and for Ivan not to ridicule him because of it. Ivan's chest swelled from that, but he also felt empathetic and saddened by the display.

Ivan wrapped an arm around Alfred and drew him in close to his chest. To his surprise, Alfred buried his face in his chest, whimpering and clawing into the skin. Ivan did not mind the pain. "Alfred, everything will be okay. Do not cry."

"D-don't tell me what to d-do, bastard."

Ivan was certainly caught off guard by the statement, but he continued holding Alfred nonetheless. "I know that you are hurting, and I know that you feel upset, but you do not need to be violent. She is in a better place now, da? You should be happy for her."

Alfred glared at him and pushed away. "Happy that she's dead?" His voice escalated with his anger. "Happy that she never got to live her life out?"

Ivan sighed. "Alfred, she would have never survived for much longer with that wound. It was best for her to pass."

Alfred shook his head, trying to appear stoic with tears still running down his cheeks. "But I let her go to that town when I knew I shouldn't have. _Dammit_ …"

"We have already been through this, Alfred. None of this is your fault. Fate has its way indefinitely. She died because it was her time, not because of you." Honestly, it was like consoling a child.

Alfred shook his head, not wanting to believe that she was gone, but knowing it was true. He wriggled out of the sleeping bag and sat up, pulling his knees to him and trying to calm himself. Eventually, he took a deep breath and shakily withdrew it.

"I only wish I could have had her for a little while longer."

Ivan sighed and moved to sit behind Alfred, wrapping his arms around the smaller man and saying, "I know, Alfred."

Ivan didn't quite know why he was acting this way toward Alfred. Perhaps it was because of the times they were in that made him feel as if his time to be with Alfred this way—which he had been wanting for a long while, he had to admit—was limited. Though he hated to think it, he knew that not all of them would survive this Uprising and that Alfred may very well be one of those who would perish during the conflict.

Alfred seemed to sense the oddness about their position and he moved out of Ivan's arms, standing and scooping his clothes off the floor. He looked down at the ground as he slipped on his shirt, his face red and blank.

Ivan watched him mill around with concern. The American was looking more solemn and moving with less enthusiasm than he expected. He settled then that he would watch Alfred closely from then on just in case one of his mood swings resulted in the harm of others or of himself. He knew from yesterday what Alfred could do when he was blinded by rage.

There was a scuffing of feet outside and Arthur's voice said, "Alfred? Are you up?"

"Yeah,"

Arthur paused, taking in the hollowness in Alfred's tone, but continuing nonetheless. "Alfred, I'm sorry, but we need to leave from here. Those rebels will be back at any time."

"How do you know?" Alfred's voice was cold.

"Because," Arthur said with exasperation, then sighed, "Look, just get dressed and come outside. I'll get everyone else up so I can tell them how I know."

Alfred huffed and unzipped the flap, ducking under it. Ivan threw on a shirt and followed him out into the clearing where the others were emerging from their respective tents.

Francis was already there, having been woken by Arthur since they shared the same tent. He looked nervous and weary, staring at the ground with a sort of detached interest. Ever the punctual nation, Ludwig emerged along with Gilbert, who had decided to stay in his brother's tent to allow the Italies to comfort one another. Matthew eventually came out, helping Sadiq hobble over to a nearby tree where he could sit with his back against the trunk. Matthew then sat down beside him, drawing his knees up—much in the same way Alfred had—and hiding his head in his arms. Yao and Kiku quickly followed, both men looking grimly straight-faced. The last to come out were the Italy brothers. Lovino led the way, coaxing his brother out by the hand and coming to stand in the ring of nations that surrounded Arthur. Feliciano's eyes were puffy and red from crying, perhaps crying himself to sleep, and a few more tears sprung to his eyes as he glanced at Marge's grave. Lovino tugged on his brother's hand to get him to look away, his own face pale and empty.

Arthur clapped his hands together when they were all gathered.

"The main mission this morning is to move camp. Now I know you all are shaken and would rather stay and rest up, but we must leave before the rebels show up. I know they will and that they are planning for an all-out attack that could kill us all. So unless you want to be a victim," Arthur's throat tightened and his eyes darted over to Marge's grave. "then you will do well to listen to me."

"And why should we?"

It was Lovino who asked, glaring directly at Arthur, still holding his brother's hand. "My fratello is ill and on top of that, he is also very overwhelmed by what has just happened. So tell me, why in the hell should we leave this place on your assumptions?"

"I was just getting to that." Arthur's voice was calm as he explained, "I expect all of you know that I use magic every now and then and it so happens that I brought my spell book with me. I decided last night to scry the rebels since I couldn't sleep—"

"What the hell is scrying?" Gilbert asked and Arthur was surprised when it wasn't Alfred who had asked. The American was currently staring off into the forest with his eyes unfocused, only half listening.

"Seeing current events through water. Now, I know you all are exhausted, and I am as well, but you must heed my warning: I overheard the rebels saying that tonight they will attack us while we sleep and take us captive as well as our supplies. They will interrogate us about our views of government and if we give the wrong answers, they will kill us. As for Alfred," Arthur eyed the American who had stiffened at his name, but otherwise remained how he had been since Arthur had started. "This 'Organization Coup' seems to have a bounty on his head. The rebels alluded to the fact that the reason they want him is to keep him from reforming the country 'the deceptive way.' The only way to do so, however, is to execute him." Arthur swallowed and then looked at Alfred.

"Alfred? Are you listening?"

"Yeah," Alfred said instantly, surprising the Brit. He turned to face him, something igniting behind his eyes. "You guys can go. I have business to take care of in town."

Arthur's heart began to race. "Alfred, no. You can't go around being reckless. Gordon will get his comeuppance in due time, but I won't let you run headlong into something that could kill you." That was it. Arthur was going to keep Alfred alive and safe, and if that meant resulting to violence then that's what he would do.

Ivan decided to forget others' opinions about his concern and said, "Da, Alfred. You cannot go back there. Is too dangerous. We are not as strong as we used to be… we are no longer nations, so we are susceptible to human physical violence."

Arthur blinked. "I had never thought of that. All the more reason for Alfred not to go."

But Alfred stood firm on his decision. "I don't care. Just because I'm not as strong as I used to be doesn't mean I can't handle myself. In fact, I'm glad I get to face the rebels with equal strength; when I win over them, it'll give me the satisfaction of knowing I beat their asses at their level."

Arthur began, "Alfred—" but he was cut off.

"Al, we can't afford to lose you." Matthew said, looking at his brother with a forlorn expression. "Your states can't lose you. I can't lose you. You know that. It's too much of a risk."

Alfred was quiet for a few moments and said, "I know, Mattie, but I _need_ to do this." He took a deep breath and exhaled shakily. "The bastard _needs_ to pay, and I'm not just gonna let him get away with what he's done or let him do it to anyone else. The world would be a hell of a lot better without people like him. It's just one rebel down on our way to restoring order."

"Alfred," Arthur said firmly. "If you still refuse to stay here, then I will have no choice but to keep you here against your will."

Alfred scowled. "Go ahead and try! I guarantee you that I'll follow up on my word one way or another. I promised my daughter I would!"

"Please, Al," Matthew insisted, but Alfred acted as if he hadn't heard him.

Arthur sighed and said, "Fine. Ludwig, Ivan, hold him for me."

"What?" Alfred spun around, now alert, as Ludwig grabbed one of his arms and Ivan the other. Alfred looked up at the Russian with hurt in his eyes and Ivan wanted to reassure him that this was the right thing and that their relationship was not a fluke, but Ivan knew it would only cause a scene.

Alfred fought and kicked and yelled, but when he couldn't get away, he ceased struggling and growled, "What do you plan to do with me, then?"

Arthur reemerged from his tent, a few coils of ropes in his arms. "I plan to bind you, Alfred."

"That sounds like something we should say."

All the nations stiffened as men leaped down from the trees armed with guns and handcuffs.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: I know what you're thinking: "Damn, they CANNOT stay out of trouble, can they?" Well, nope! Are you kidding? I'm not giving them a break just because someone died, big whoop. It only makes the plot better anyway, so here we go again!

See you next week (hopefully). I may post on Sunday or somewhere around there depending on when I get back. Please be sure to check out my juicy BDSM fic _Enjoying the Fireworks_. (I'll post as soon as I get the chance, hopefully on the 4th)


	35. Bloodhound

**I'm back in black~! And our boys just can't catch a break. XD  
**

Warning: Angst, threatening with weapons and rape, blunt force fatality.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Bloodhound**

The nations were shocked and also unarmed. Ludwig immediately let go of Alfred and rushed over to Gilbert's side, who was currently shielding the Italies; Lovino was holding his brother close to him, his face pallid and terror-stricken, while Feliciano cried helplessly in fear. Arthur backed toward the tents, ropes still in hand, a look of horror on his face. Francis dove for Matthew, helping to protect the injured Sadiq. Ivan increased his hold on Alfred's arm. Yao and Kiku both backed away, Kiku trying to slip out his hidden katana before one of the men spotted him and snapped, "Drop it!"

Kiku did so, scowling like a defensive cat.

Without having to be directed, the men moved toward their targets, handcuffs in hand. The nations were pulled from one another, Feliciano giving a harsh cry when he was torn from his brother. Lovino responded by shouting curses at the man trying to take him away, but the man gave him a hard slap to the face. Lovino stumbled back, lip bleeding and stunned. The man then spun the rebellious Italian around and cuffed him, Lovino now whimpering in shock.

Once they were all subdued—Ivan unsettling the man guarding him with one of his signature death glares—an older man dressed more ornately than the others walked into the center of the clearing and said, "Okay, folks. This is how it's going to go. We are the Bloodhound Unit of Organization Coup and were alerted to an unknown group in this region and were dispatched to invesitgate. Upon interrogation of the locals and observation of your camp activities and conversations, we have reason to believe that you are all in favor of a deceptive government. As so, we will be taking you to the closest facility and storing you until escorts arrive to take you to the Organization headquarters." He then motioned to the rest of his group and said, "Line them up. The rest of you, stay behind and gather their things. We're heading back."

Alfred struggled with the guy holding him, shouting out profanities until he received a hefty punch to the stomach. The American stopped yelling to cough up clots of blood.

Ivan could do nothing even with his large size (two men were assigned to him for that purpose), but he could glare like hell and that was enough to intimidate the men to the point they were shuddering and offering him more space.

Arthur was glaring as well, not at the men, but at himself. How could he not have known? All the precautions he went through with his magic and he still couldn't keep them safe. He felt so useless. _If only there was something else I could do…_

Then Arthur smiled. There was, but he'd have to wait for the right moment.

Francis saw Arthur smiling and was worried that the Briton had finally broke and gone crazy. It wouldn't surprise Francis in the least after all that had happened in the last few days.

It was still dark as they made their way through the town, the sky lightening on the horizon just over the treetops. Arthur expected for them to be arriving to a hideout somewhere pretty soon, but was surprised (and a tad alarmed) to see that they were in fact heading out of town toward the woods on the other side.

They continued to walk for a long while, Feliciano initially crying loudly until a sock was stuffed into his mouth. Lovino didn't take this kindly and tried to protest, but he was also gagged.

Ludwig and Gilbert, kept apart by a few men, were wearing identical scowls, though Ludwig's was more intimidating, mostly because he used it more often.

Yao, meanwhile, was walking with great importance, giving the men surrounding him the outward appearance of his body guards. Kiku was walking just a few paces behind him, eyes narrowed like a cat's.

Sadiq was being supported by one man, gritting his teeth the whole time, though more out of anger than pain. His bandages were bleeding and he desperately needed to rest, he was so exhausted. Matthew, meanwhile, walked behind him, head down and shuddering.

After traipsing until evening through the woods, they arrived at what looked to be a bunker. Without a word, they were all directed into it and into one of the rooms at the very back.

It was dark, with no windows and only a lantern for light. The walls were gray and covered in filth. They were guided to the back of the room, the men forcing them to sit on their knees in a crescent formation. The men stood before them, aiming their guns at each of them in case one of them decided to make a move.

Then the leader stepped forward, arms folded, and said, "So, this is how things will go down. We keep you here a couple of days to confirm your capture with headquarters. Then one of our associates with armed guards will drive you there for a decision about your punishment."

They were all silent for a moment until Arthur glared at him and said, "Like hell you will, bastard."

Alfred flashed a surprised look over to his brother. Normally, he would be the one protesting, but Marge's death and their current situation made him feel more disheartened than usual.

The leader cocked his head at the Brit. "Huh, what was that, limey? I don't believe I heard you correctly."

Arthur scowled. "I said, try to do it, bastard."

The man stepped forward, his comrades adjusting their aims so that they could fire if Arthur decided to do anything suspicious. He knelt down and moved so that their noses were just inches apart, smiling cockily.

"Oh yeah?" the man sneered. "None of your other buddies seem keen to join you."

Arthur did not break his gaze with the man, eyes fierce, not noticing the many what-the-hell-are-you-doing-dumbass looks he was getting from most of the other nations.

"So what?" Arthur snapped back. "It's not like I need their approval."

The man sat back on his heels and smirked, pondering for a moment before saying, "Guys, I think I found your next plaything."

The men around him broke into wicked smiles and Arthur had a sinking feeling in his stomach, but he kept his stoic persona nonetheless.

The man before him stood and nodded to his nearest comrade. "Take him to the back with Wilson. You two can have your fun with him first and tell us how he is."

The man named Wilson stepped forward along with his comrade to snatch Arthur up by one arm, his companion doing the same with the other. "Heheh, I've been looking forward to this ever since that other slut killed himself. Now we get a limey spitfire."

Arthur squirmed in their grasp as he was dragged across the room. "Let go of me you grimy gits! Try me and I'll throttle you to no end!"

"Heh, we'll see."

At this, Alfred lurched forward and yelled, "Hey! Let him go!"

"Please, do not hurt him. You can have me." Francis said shakily.

"Shut up!" the boss yelled, brandishing his own gun at them. "Shut up or you'll be hobbling all the way back to headquarters with a bullet in your leg!"

At this, they both shut their mouths, but that didn't stop them from glaring.

Alfred was clenching his fists and scowling and Francis was biting his lip with anxiety. _Please let him be okay_. They thought simultaneously.

Alfred was about to yell again, but Arthur flashed him a look that silenced him, confusing him all the more. _What the hell are you doing, Artie?_ He couldn't lose Arthur. For the life of him, he would go crazy.

Arthur continued to yell and kick and struggle until he was dragged out of the door. The heavy door slammed shut and seemed to shake the entire building. Alfred's blood boiled and Francis's eyes stung with tears.

They could only hope that Arthur's arrogant mouth wouldn't be his ultimate downfall.

* * *

Arthur continued to shout as the two men pulled him down the hallway. One of them stopped to stuff a gag into his mouth and growl, "Fucking be quiet or you'll be hurting for far more than a few days."

Arthur stopped then and feigned despair, making the men smile with triumph.

He let them relax as they continued down the hall, and when one turned his attention away to open a door at their left, Arthur sprang into action.

Being as silent as possible so as not to alert the rest of the party just down the hall, Arthur stomped hard one of the men's feet, making him lose his balance. As he expected, Arthur was pulled down on top of him as he fell, the man hitting his head hard against the wall, the other guard letting go and staring in astonishment. Before the guard beneath him could get his wits about him, Arthur kicked out at the standing man's legs. The guard gave a startled yelp as he tripped backward and landed flat on his back over the threshold of the doorway. There was an echoing _clack_ as his gun slipped out of his hand and slid across the hard floor.

Below Arthur, the other man stirred, but the Briton didn't give him time to react. He rolled onto his back, tucking his knees up to his chest. After some quick squirming, he managed to slip both his cuffed hands under his legs so that they were now in front of him. He then sat upon the man's chest, glaring down at him. Using both of his still-cuffed hands, Arthur grabbed him by the ears and commenced slamming his head against the concrete floor until he could feel the wetness of blood coat his fingers and the man went limp. Strangling would have taken too long and Arthur didn't have the time to waste, even though this was a brutal and dirty way of killing. Wiping the man's blood from his hands, Arthur then stood and walked over to the man still lying on the floor. The guard looked dazed, but a flicker of fear flashed behind his eyes when Arthur came looming over him, a smirk on his face.

Arthur spat out the grimy gag. "How's this for limey spitfire, cowardly sonofabitch?" And Arthur stepped on the man's throat, pressing until blood spurted out from his mouth and the man stopped gurgling, the light dying from his eyes.

When it was all through, Arthur slumped against the wall, finding that he was out of breath, shaking, and sweating profusely.

He had just killed two men.

Sure, it shouldn't come as that big of a shock to Arthur; he had killed before. But the act always left him with a grim and icy thrill—as if he had just stumbled upon the corpses left by some freak serial killer instead of himself.

In any case, he tried not to think about it. Besides, it was the only thing that could be done. He couldn't risk an all-out fight with the men for fear of being heard by the others down the hall.

But Arthur need not focus on the bodies and the blood nor what perverse excitement it gave him. Eventually, he gathered his mind and focused in on one mission: _Find the key._

Running only on instinct lest he remember he was searching through dead bodies and warm blood, Arthur knelt next to the man whose form lay sprawled over the threshold and searched through his pockets. It was a rather difficult task, considering his hands were still cuffed.

Just when Arthur feared he would have to search the other man for the key, thus wasting more time, his fingers brushed up against something cold and metal. Relief overcoming him, Arthur slipped the key out and fumbled with it before finally unlocking his handcuffs.

Rubbing his sore wrists and stretching his arms that had long been pinned behind him, Arthur cast a look down at the bodies. _Thank God it worked._ Though he didn't know why he had been so worried. After all, he was a master escape artist, so it was only practical that after wriggling out of similar predicaments for centuries he would again be successful. And this time it, he had to admit, had been especially easy. Americans weren't the brightest beings and the guards had left themselves exposed to attacks multiple times, Arthur only choosing to go ahead with his plan as soon as one of the men took his eyes off him—a fatal mistake.

Arthur then took both of the men's handguns, holding them in his hands. As much as he wanted to get the rest of the nations the hell out of that room, he knew he couldn't just go in there, guns blazing, and even have the slightest hope of avoiding the hundreds of rounds that would surely be sent his way.

He needed a plan. And fast.

Knowing the men would come looking for him if he took too long, Arthur decided that the best thing to do was to get the hell out of the bunker. He would be of no use if he was trapped in the place just like everyone else. He tried not to think how selfish that excuse sounded.

Arthur ran the length of the hallway, looking into every room for a possible escape route and hoping to God that no one else was in the bunker.

And, to his utter surprise, no one was. Thank you, sparse American minds.

Finally, after what seemed like an our of searching, Arthur came across a small back room that was completely dark save for the moonlight streaming through a narrow window on the opposite wall.

Rushing forward, his heart pounding with excitement, Arthur tugged hard on the rusty lock until it moved, with an ear-splitting screech. Horrified, Arthur chanced a quick glance over his shoulder.

Good. No one heard.

He continued, going slower this time, until he heard the lock click and he dug the tips of his fingers under the window, pushing upwards. He grunted, his muscles straining, as he struggled to move the old frame, finally getting it to slide smoothly up. Panting, Arthur stuck his head out of the window and looked around.

No one. Perfect.

Giving a short jump, Arthur balanced on his belly as he wriggled his way through the small window. His head was no problem, and he shrugged his shoulders, managing to get them through. But when his whole upper body was free of the frame, Arthur braced his feet against the wall in order to push himself the rest of the way out—and when he did, a sharp pain shot through his pelvis and he hung there, dangling helplessly.

His hips? Really?

"Dammit," Arthur cursed, shifting about until he managed to get his hips succesfully free and then pushed himself out. To avoid landing on his face, Arthur tucked his head and rolled, coming out in a crouch he was sure was worthy of 007. He smirked at himself. Yes, he was James Bond before there even _was_ a James Bond.

Now if only he could locate a vodka martini?

Shaken, not stirred.

Distracted by this amusing thought, he didn't notice that someone was looming behind him until a hand came around his mouth and something sharp nudged at his neck.

He stiffened as the figure bent over him and a young man's voice whispered, "Be quiet and let me explain."

 _Explain?_ As if Arthur would let someone who was currently threatening to slit his throat have a say! But the knife at his skin was persistant, and another softly muttered, "Please" convinced Arthur that this was no enemy.

The Briton relaxed his body so that the young man let go of him and said, "Turn around."

Arthur did so, blinking at the dark form. The man was wearing dark, ripped jeans and a plain black hoodie with the hood pulled up. The only patch of color was a green bandana that was wrapped around the man's nose and mouth. As Arthur took him in, he guessed his height to be around that of his own. The voice sounded like it belonged to someone no older than fourteen.

The boy's hazel eyes gleamed in the pale light as he spoke. "Were they keeping you in there?"

"Yeah. Or did you suppose I fancied contorting myself to get out of a window just for the hell of it?"

The boy smiled behind his eyes. "Sorry. Just have to confirm. Are there more of you in there?"

"Yes. I was just going to look for a way inside so I could ambush the guards or slip the rest of my friends out without alerting anyone."

The boy pondered before saying, "All right. I know a way."

Arthur blinked, surprised. "You've done this before, I presume?"

"Yeah," The boy turned and motioned for Arthur to follow, walking along the wall of the bunker, crouched down, searching for something. "I've been following the Bloodhounds ever since they crossed my path."

"That's not very wise."

"It is if I'm looking for someone." The boy paused at a place in the wall, Arthur joining him and squinting to see the boy's finger moving a foot or so up from the wall. "I figured it was the only thing I could do since the world's gone to hell and all. But the thing is, I know this bunker—actually, I used to play in this place with my siblings when I was little."

Arthur crouched down next to him and asked, "What are you looking at?"

"No. It's what I'm looking _for_. I know all the ways in and out of this bunker, and there's one way that just might suffice in this situation."

"For someone so young, you talk like an old man."

The boy scoffed. "Thanks for reminding me." Before Arthur could ask, the boy exclaimed, "Aha!" and dug his fingers under a rift in the concrete of the wall, pulling slowly. Arthur watched in amazement as a door formed, the cement scraping dustily as it was forced open.

The boy stood and said, panting slightly, "Well, there it is."

"Is _what_ , exactly?"

"A tunnel. When they made this bunker, they created an escape tunnel just in case. This bunker acted as a storage unit before it was converted to a shelter in the Cold War, so this tunnel is relatively new. Good thing for us." He got on his hands and knees—as the door was only about three feet high and four feet wide—and crawled inside. Arthur hesitated before he barked, "Come on!"

The tunnel was dark and dank. Arthur wrinkled his nose as he was met with the smell of damp stone. They continued on for a few minutes until they came to a junction that consisted of a small four-by-four room.

Before Arthur could ask, the boy said, "They stored food in here. Again, just in case." And they went on the their way.

They eventually arrived at a room where their backpacks and various other supplies had been thrown. Arthur stopped the boy and motioned to it. "We need those. They're our only supply line."

The boy nodded and, even though it pained Arthur to waste time in his mind, he and the boy removed all of their belongings to safety.

After another minute or so, the boy whispered, "Hey, where are your friends at anyway? Any particular room?"

"Just keep going until you hear voices."

And they did. Another minute yielded the boss's voice. Arthur frowned. Oh, if only there was a way to punch a voice…

"There?"

"Hm?"

"There," the boy pointed with his hand. "Is that them there?"

"Yes," Arthur replied, examining the backs of his fellow nations. The Italies were shaking, Alfred was rigid, and Ivan… was alarmingly calm. "How are we going to get them out?"

"We can't go in there now. There are too many men."

"What, do we just wait?"

"That's the only thing we can do at this point."

"They might be shot if they find out I'm missing!"

The boy shifted nervously. "Well then let's hope they don't find out soon."

They lapsed into silence and it seemed like hours, but could only be about ten minutes, when the boss said, "All right. I think we should check on the guys and see how they liked the limey."

"And what if they didn't like him, boss?" one of the men asked, a smirk on his face.  
The boss smiled. "Then we get that pretty little Italian to fuck." He leered at Feliciano, who broke into tears.

Lovino stiffened, as if he meant to shout something, but he kept his mouth shut, scooting closer to Feliciano, shaking in anger.

 _We must rescue them soon_. Arthur thought with angst. He bit his lip until all the men filed out, then turned to the boy who was crouching next to him. "Now?"

The boy nodded. "Yeah. Hurry,"

Feliciano whimpered nearby. "R-Roma… I don't want to go with those men."

"I know, fratello." Lovino said, his voice gravelly with ire. "We won't let them get you. We'll find a way out of here, dammit."

"Not without Artie," Alfred said determinedly. "We need to find him before we leave."

Francis nodded. "I will stay until we do."

Matthew was about to say something, when he gave a squeak as the wall shifted behind him. He moved away and a part of the wall moved to reveal a dark passageway. After a few tense moments, all the nations staring, Arthur stuck his head out and said, "Close your mouths and follow me, will you?"

Without a word, they all filed through the tunnel, though slowly so. Alfred flashed Arthur a look of relief as he went out, telling the Briton with his eyes that he was glad he was okay. Arthur nodded and moved him along, anxious to get out of the bunker as quickly as possible (also because he wasn't quite used to Alfred worrying over _him_ ). Francis, surprisingly, went last, leaning in to kiss Arthur on the cheek as he moved past him, winking gratefully. Arthur blushed and rolled his eyes, hastily following after him and moving to shut the tunnel door when a man came striding back into the room.

They met eyes for a second, before the man opened his mouth and yelled, "The hostages are escaping!" and lunged toward the door.

Arthur stiffened and fumbled with the door, but it eventually became clear that he wasn't going to be able to fit it back in the frame before the man arrived. Instead, he let go of the door, letting it fall to the floor with a loud _clang_. All the nations stopped abruptly to look back, but Arthur roughly shoved them onward, "Go! Go, you gits!"

Arthur tried to cram himself into the tunnel to avoid the man's grabbing hands, but his ankles were eventually caught and he was being dragged back out.

He scrabbled on his stomach to get away, but it wasn't working. Resigning himself to his fate, Arthur turned onto his back to face his attacker.

Then, as quickly as he was being pulled out, he was stopped. He looked up to see Francis, hands wrapped tightly around Arthur's forearms, looking down at him in panic. Luckily, the man holding his ankles was so distracted by the sudden stop in progress, that he let up a bit—just enough so that Arthur could kick off his attacker and scrambled further back into the tunnel.

The man growled and was about halfway inside himself, when the sound of feet running sounded and the boss shouted, "Not so fast, Stevens! They could lash out in there!"

Relief flooded Arthur until he heard, "Go around the back and catch them there. Don't let them escape!"

"Move it, frog!" Arthur growled, shoving Francis on the rump as he crawled.

"Eh, I charge for my services, cher." Francis wiggled his butt and Arthur huffed in annoyance.

"Shut it and go!"

Finally, they were out. Nations rolled out of the tunnel, jumping to their feet or stumbling. Feliciano looked shaken and was on the verge of tears, while Kiku looked so pale he could pass out. Under his breath he was muttering, "Too close, too close…"

Ivan stood and stretched his back. "Oh, боже всемогущий." he groaned, rubbing his back. "I was nearly bent permanently in half…"

Alfred picked up his backpack and blinked in surprise. "You got our stuff , too?"

"Where to now?" Arthur asked, ignoring Alfred's meaningless question, looking at the boy who was panting himself.

"I… I…" he tried to catch his breath and then seemed to come to a revelation. "Follow me. Fast!"

At that, they all picked up their bags and set off behind him, none of them caring to ask why they were following a stranger.

They could hear the men rounding the back of the bunker behind them, and they picked up their pace exponentially. Before long, they were diving into a large, five-foot-tall drainage pipe, doubling over to keep their heads from scraping the top. Eventually, the pipe got larger until they all could stand upright, the crown of Ivan's head just grazing the damp ceiling.

They all stopped and listened, holding their breaths as the men searched around the drain, then moved on. When they could hear them no more, they all let out sighs of relief and Arthur turned to the boy.

"Thank you for helping us."

"No prob, brother. Anythin' ta thwart the Organization."

Arthur frowned at the boy's sudden change in voice, his heart pounding when he thought he had made a horrible mistake in trusting him. He was about to say something, but Alfred beat him to it.

"Wait," Alfred squinted through the dark. The pipe was dimly lit by moonlight filtering through a small grate at the top. He glared at the boy, not caring if he couldn't see the threat or not. "Who are you anyway? Why did you help us?" His hand was on the grip of his handgun.

The boy responded without hesitation: "M'name's Wynston. That's spelled with a 'y' not an 'i.' And as I told you before, I have a vendetta of my own against the Organization and am intent upon freein' anyone from their murderous clutches."

Alfred cocked his head at the voice—it sounded… familiarly accented. Like those cowboys in old western films. Then he lifted his hand off his gun and his eyes went wide, though the gestures were hidden in such darkness.

"Winnie?"

Wynston's breath hitched for a moment and he hesitated before saying, as if he had been expecting Alfred, "Oh, well hey, Pa."

* * *

Translations:

боже всемогущий-God almighty

A Word From the Writer: Hey, what did I say? Here's another state! Though I think he'll be easy to identify by his name (and accent). I know he sounds a little... stupid with it, but I plan to write Wynston as an experienced survivalist. Just try not to think of George Bush (like I do) every time his dialogue comes up. Oh crap, I spoiled it for you, didn't I?

And dark!England is awesome to write. The 007 thing I just threw in there. Not really a fan (I think he's a bit overrated, honestly. I like Jason Bourne better). Bond is kind of a manwhore. What a way to drop hints to France, England. XD


	36. The One That Got Away

**New OC, activate!  
**

Warning: Emotional stuff, angst, a physical threat, a chase, someone gets sick, others pass out, all the fun stuff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**The One That Got Away**

"Oh, well hey, Pa."

Alfred felt his legs go weak and tears poured into his eyes. He was thoroughly stunned, and all he could say for a moment was, "Oh my God."

Wynston took the initiative and walked toward Alfred, throwing his arms around him. Alfred eventually did the same, hugging the boy close and crying into his shoulder. "My God, Winnie. Thank God…"

Wynston laughed, half-sobbing. "I told ya not ta call me that…"

"Wait a bloody minute." Arthur snapped. "Do you mind telling us who the hell this is?"

Alfred and Wynston separated and Alfred sniffed, clearing his throat before putting his hand on the boy's shoulder and saying, "Everyone, this is Wynston, or as you know him, Wyoming."

At this, Wynston pulled down his hood and took off his bandana, revealing a young, though knowing, face and eager hazel eyes. "Sorry for spookin' y'all. Didn't mean to. I've been tryin' ta hide my appearance and my voice ever since I escaped from them 'hounds."

Arthur frowned at his accent. He didn't like it, but at least it wasn't the dunder-headed deep southern accent. He was surprised at how deep Wynston's voice was for appearing so young. It was more gravelly and rough than the typical southern accent… but there was _some_ knowledge behind his voice, for how else could he have survived this long? He guessed he could call it 'western', but that brought up too many memories of Alfred's idolized cowboy movies for Arthur to care for.

"Escape?" Ludwig said. "They caught you? Did they say anything alluding to where the Organization's headquarters might be?"

Wynston huffed. "And here I was thinkin' y'all be glad ta see me. Guess I was wrong… jerks." When they all stared at him, unamused, Wynston scoffed and said, "No sense of humor, eh? … Yeah, yeah I did get captured. I was with Colton and Ida at the time… don't know where they got off to, but we were separated when we were caught. I don't know what happened to 'em after that, but I haven't seen 'em since."

They all looked to Alfred to explain. "You were with Colorado and Idaho? When? Where?"

"Down near Shoshone Falls not two weeks ago. The same Bloodhound gang that caught you caught us. They said they was gonna drive us to headquarters, wherever that was… but the boss said somethin' about us being too far ta transport and bein' more trouble than we was worth. I don't know what that means, but I hope it's not what I think it is."

Alfred's breath hitched and he began rolling up his sleeves, examining his bare arms. "I… I don't see anything that would indicate that they're in trouble. I haven't felt anything either, wait… how did I not feel you?"

"I suppressed my presence. I've been workin' on it as soon as the first trouble started in the capital. And even though I knew it must be you who I was feelin', I had ta make sure. Too much freaky shit has been goin' on 'round here for me ta just walk up to ya and reveal myself."

Feliciano, meanwhile, was whimpering. "U-uh, G-Germany? It's d-dark and my wr-wrists hurt…"

"Oh, I'm sorry." Arthur said, walking over to Feliciano and taking the key out of his pocket. "I'll get these handcuffs off of everybody."

Once Matthew was free of his, he quickly walked over to Wynston and hugged him. "I knew you'd make it."

Wynston snorted. "O' course I would, Uncle Matt."

Matthew let go of him when he heard Sadiq (who had been rid of his own handcuffs) slide to the floor with a pained grunt. "Dammit… hurts…"

The Canadian knelt down next to him and pulled up his pant leg, checking his bandaged ankle. "Sit still. How long have you been bleeding like this…?"

"For… about…" Sadiq found it hard to catch his breath and he was a little dizzy. "About two hours…"

"Ai-ya," Yao said. "He needs fluids."

"Here," Ivan handed Matthew a flask.

The Canadian looked quizzically up at him. "Uh, Russia… alcohol will only make his blood run faster."

Ivan frowned. "Why must you all think that all I drink is vodka? Is water."

"Oh," Matthew said, unstoppering the flask and tipping it up to Sadiq's lips. "Th-thanks…"

That reminded Ludwig. The German turned to his brother and ordered, "East, take off your shirt."

Gilbert knew what he was asking, but feigned ignorance. "Heh, West, this is not the time for stripping…"

"Stop being a smartass, and do what I say!"

"Okay, okay! Jeez…" He took the shirt slowly off of him, wincing as the movement caused his still-marked skin to stretch. " _Scheiße_ …"

Ludwig moved forward to check and _tsk_ ed. "You've bled through your bandages."

"Dammit," Gilbert spat. "Will they _ever_ heal? … Gott, I-I need to sit… tired…" The albino bent to do so before Ludwig could stop him, giving a startled grunt and falling face-forward. Ludwig caught him just before he hit the ground and laid him gently down.

"East?" Ludwig said, panic rising in his voice. "East? East! Don't you fuck with me now! Wake up!"

Feliciano broke into tears. "No, no, don't let him die, Germany, please don't let him die!"

"I doubt that he's dead." Arthur said, going over to him and checking the pulse in his neck. "No… he's just passed out. He's lost a lot of blood and overexerted himself."

"Che," Lovino scoffed. "At least the idiot's not blabbing about how awesome he is anymore. Damn moron deserves to be silent for a while."

Ludwig rounded on him and snatched him up by the collar, making the older Italian whimper and Feliciano cry harder. "Say that again, Lovino! Say that again and I swear, I'll make _you_ silent!"

"Germany! Please don't hurt my fratello!" Feliciano begged.

"Go ahead," Ivan smiled cruelly, inching closer to get a better view. "In my opinion both him and Gilbert have been annoying. The arrogant ass and the whiny bitch should be made quiet for a while, da?"

"Ivan," Alfred warned. "This is not your fight. Don't escalate it."

"Oh, da?" Ivan sneered. "You mean like _you_ do all the time, Alfred?"

"Bastard," Alfred growled, advancing toward him. They both shared a short smile, both knowing very well that neither would hurt each other but staging a fake fight to avoid the other nations becoming suspicious of them. Still, Ivan always managed to piss him off even if they were just pretending. Ivan smirked a bit, noticing the stiffness in Alfred's jaw.

Francis groaned at the tension. "Ugh, can we all not love each other? This is what happens when the world is devoid of love!"

Arthur rolled his eyes and snapped, "Stop rambling, obnoxious frog. If you had your way, everyone in the world would love each other _exponentially_ so."

Francis leered. "And what is wrong with that, cher?"

"And why did I expect that to be your response?" Arthur feigned pondering. "Oh, yes, because you're nothing but a slimy, perverted frog!"

"Ugh…" Kiku had his arms wrapped around his stomach.

Yao gave him a worried look. "What's wrong?"

"The pipe… so confined… the fighting… my belly…" Kiku was as pale as a sheet. His throat convulsed and he gave a harsh groan as he staggered a bit down the pipe before turning his back on them and retching.

All the fighting stopped and they all watched Kiku as he righted himself and wiped his mouth, turning around with downcast eyes and a red face. "Sōrī,"

After a moment, Arthur sighed, rubbing a temple, "Okay. Enough of this quarreling. This isn't the time and, quite frankly, I couldn't give a damn about anything other than getting the hell away from that bunker."

"Agreed," Ludwig chimed in, positioning his unconscious brother so that he was sitting up against the curved wall of the pipe. "We need to leave here. They could double back and look more thoroughly when they do not find us."

"H-hai…" Kiku stuttered, walking back over to join them, though standing a bit further off than before. He looked at Wynston. "Where does this pipe lead?"

"A small lake." Wynston answered. "There's a river goin' off from it. We can follow it out of Yellowstone."

"We're _still_ in Yellowstone?" Feliciano asked, eyes wide. "Ve~! It's so big!"

Francis sighed lecherously. "If only I could hear you say that under different circumstances…"

Arthur rounded on Francis. "Shut it, frog, or I just might not be there to save your arse again!"

"Shh!" Matthew hissed, still crouched beside Sadiq. "They might hear you. This pipe amplifies sound!"

Arthur was about to chew Francis out in a quieter voice when they heard mens' voices around the mouth of the pipe outside. They all froze and looked in that direction. A few more moments passed before the sound of boots sloshing through the water echoed back to them.

Alfred immediately turned around and snatched Wynston up by the arm, pushing him ahead of him. When the cowboy looked back quizzically, Alfred muttered, "Get moving. You're our guide!"

Wynston nodded and started off, motioning for them to follow. Ludwig bent down and hefted his brother onto his back, wrapping Gilbert's slack arms around his neck and holding his legs as he carried him further down the pipe. And the goddamn albino was heavy. What the hell had Gilbert been eating in these lean times anyway? Not that he wasn't grateful—it was one less stomach to fill. The feel of Gilbert's heart beating against his back reassured Ludwig that he was still alive.

Matthew, meanwhile, pulled Sadiq to his feet—well, _foot_ —struggling to move him along. Eventually, Francis came to join them, wrapping one of Sadiq's arms around his shoulders and both helping him hobble along down the pipe.

Yao followed closely beside Kiku, who was looking faint again. He held onto his shoulder to steady the younger nation. Lovino and Feliciano were somewhere in front; the older Italian, still shaken from his earlier encounter with Ludwig, clinging to Feliciano, who was whimpering.

Arthur, Ivan, and Alfred brought up the rear. It was pitch dark, so they had to hold onto each other in order to know where they all were. Ivan and Arthur had their arms closest to the wall stretched out, feeling the damp length of the pipe, however slimy and gross it was. They couldn't afford to run into walls now. Alfred walked in the middle of them, his left hand holding Arthur's and his right snagging Ivan's. The Russian seemed to startle when he felt Alfred's touch, but within moments he had intertwined their fingers and squeezed reassuringly. On the other side of Alfred, Arthur did the same with the hand in his own. Two of the men he loved the most both holding his hands, one oblivious to the fact that the other mattered so much to the American. It was so weird!

"It's all right," Arthur muttered. "We'll make it out, if Wynston proves to have a better sense of direction than you do." Even though Alfred couldn't see him, he knew Arthur was smirking.

Alfred gave him a playful shove. Not expecting it (and blind in the first place), Arthur stumbled, his shoes scraping against the floor and disturbing the water as he tried to catch himself on the wall. The whole procession stopped, fearing it was the men.

Finally, Arthur whispered harshly, "It's me, you daft blighters! Now move!"

Just as the words were out of his mouth, splashing could be heard farther down the tunnel as men ran to catch up to them, alerted to their presence. The flicker of several flashlights lit up the walls behind them.

Arthur tugged Alfred's hand, running with the rest of the group. Ivan did the same, though more roughly so, and the American quickly found his arms aching with the effort to keep up with their uneven strides. He eventually snatched his hands back, one going to slip out his handgun from its holster just in case. Beside him, Arthur slipped out his pistol and cocked it, not caring about the sound now that the Bloodhounds already knew they were there. Ivan parted his coat and took out his AK-47, loading it as he ran.

The tunnel was straight for a while, causing them to be spotted quicker. Alfred could practically feel the flashlights bounce off his back as they were shone on them in a flurry of harsh beams. All at once, the men behind them uttered excited cries, speeding up, forcing the nations to pick up their pace as well.

Finally, the pipe curved, and the flashlights disappeared for a few seconds when they rounded the corner. Not long after, they came at a fork in the tunnel, and, having already been flustered and pressed for time by the men fast approaching behind them (and barely being able to see for the dim light), they all went in different directions, some to the right and some to left. Arthur didn't even know he was separated from Alfred until he reached over to grab his arm, finding only empty air where the appendage should have been.

"Alfred?" Arthur whispered. He could hear other nations running beside him, but they were too fearful to answer. "Alfred?" Arthur said a little louder, and someone came running up close to him. The Briton reached out again, groping in the dark before finally snagging an arm.

The other man flinched, and snatched his arm away. "Let go of me, dammit!"

"Lovino?" Arthur asked, and the older Italian gave a 'hmph' in answer, Feliciano clearly heard whimpering alongside him. Arthur grabbed a hold of his arm again, not caring when Lovino growled and tried to get away. "Where's Alfred? Have you seen him?"

"I can't exactly _see_ anything in this dark-ass pipe, now can I?" Lovino snarled and wrenched himself free.

"Did you hear him?"

"No, dammit. Now stop asking questions and run!"

"Oh God," Arthur now remembered. There were two ways to be taken, and now it occurred to him that Alfred must have taken the other way, the blockheaded git. "The other tunnel at the fork. How many of the others took it, do you suppose?"

Lovino puffed as he ran, dragging Feliciano along beside him. "I don't know, dammit!" Although his tone was aggressive, there was a tremor of fear in his voice.

Behind them, the Bloodhound men raced after them, flashlights once again seeking them out. Arthur picked up his pace then and took down who he saw: Lovino and Feliciano were obviously there with him. Up ahead a few paces was Sadiq, flanked on either side by Francis and Matthew, who were helping him hurriedly along. At the front of the group was Wynston. Arthur scanned his eyes all around the tunnel, even chancing a glance behind him, to check if those were all who took this part of the pipe and found out that no one else but them and the men pursuing them were present.

Arthur felt his heart start to pound, if it wasn't pounding hard already. _Dammit, Alfred!_ He knew he should have microchipped the younger nation when the technology was available, but no, he was afraid it would intrude on Alfred's private life. Damn the considerate gentleman part of him.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: _Two roads diverged in a yellow woo_ _d..._ Yeah, right, like I would ever let _that_ happen! They certainly won't like tunnels anymore after this, that's for sure... if they don't get caught again. Muhaha.


	37. Tunnel Rats

**Oh shit, it's the Labyrinth! (Look out for David Bowie!)(/joking). XD  
**

Warning: Angst, a chase, suspense.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Tunnel Rats**

Kiku's lungs were aching with the amount of air he took in and he was getting a painful stitch in his side, but he did not stop to recover. He did not even dare slow to look over his shoulder.

Quick footsteps approaching made him flinch.

"Where are the others?" Ludwig's voice beside him sounded anxious.

Kiku stiffened. "The others…? You mean, they are gone?"

"Ja, they must have taken the other pipe." The German's voice was hard to understand with his loud and ragged breathing. Kiku looked through the gloom to Ludwig's back, where Gilbert still lay limply, held up only by the fact that Ludwig's back was humped over. "Scheiße," Ludwig cursed. "I knew this would happen."

"Who is here?" Kiku asked, still too afraid to look behind him.

Ludwig huffed. "Us, Ivan, Yao, and Alfred."

Kiku felt sick to the stomach with anxiety. His ill feeling only escalated when he heard the shouting of the Bloodhounds gaining on them further down the pipe. He prayed for a miracle, and all at once, they received one: the curve in the tunnel. Picking up their pace, they all sped around it, Kiku stopping abruptly as he spotted a small, three-foot-high drain leading off the main one. "Ludwig-san!" he whispered harshly, catching the German on the shoulder as he tried to speed past and pointing to the opening of the drain at the bottom of the concave-slanting wall.

Ludwig nodded and stopped, crawling on his belly into the drain with haste, Gilbert lying limply on top of his back. Yao went next, giving Kiku a worried look, knowing what he was going to experience once inside, entering the pipe as fast as possible. Once he was inside, Kiku motioned for Alfred to go. He and Ivan had a little, time-consuming squabble about who would go in first (and whether the decision would determine the level of their cowardice) before Ivan finally shoved Alfred over to the drain and glared at him until Alfred had disappeared into the drain.

Ivan clapped Kiku on the back, making the man stiffen. "Good eye, comrade." Mens' voices were closing in, and Ivan took this as impetus to get down onto all fours and crawl through the drain.

Kiku hesitated, staring at the drain as Ivan's feet disappeared. Oh God. First the tunnel in the bunker, then the pipe, then a _smaller_ pipe? Today just wasn't his day and he already felt another good retch bubbling in his stomach and burning his throat with the thought of crawling into yet another claustrophobically small space.

Then the sound of several feet fast approaching the corner drove Kiku onto his hands a knees and darting into the hole. Just as he tucked his legs in, they came rushing past, not minding to examine the pipe for an instant before continuing on into the dark.

Kiku was so frantic to get out of the tunnel, that he crawled at break-neck speed… right into Ivan's ass. The Russian gave a growl, and Kiku quickly backed away, allowing the younger nation to amble on at a speed favorable to him.

Ivan was not one to be rushed in any circumstance.

Finally (and it really was finally, because Kiku didn't think he could stand it for much longer without passing out), they all pushed out of the pipe into (thankfully) another large main pipe.

As they all stood up and righted themselves, squinting in the dark to get their bearings (though not succeeding in the least), Alfred straightened, breathing hard, and asked, "W-what the hell are we gonna to do? We're lost!"

The question had barely passed his lips before Kiku—who was at the back of the group—turned quickly, peering down the length of the tunnel behind them as footsteps echoed off the wall and got gradually faster.

"They have found us." he whispered, hand instinctively going down to grasp the grip of his katana.

Ivan turned to look as well. "Hm, so they have." And he pushed aside his coat, producing his rifle.

"That's it!" Alfred growled, taking his gun out as well. "I'm gonna kill these bastards. I'm tired of being chased around!"

"Nein!" Ludwig said. They all looked defiantly at him. But the German stood his ground. "East… East might be hurt. I cannot afford to be in a fight with him."

"Then run now." Ivan said. "We will cover you."

"No," Yao snapped. "Too many. We will lose without the others' help. We should all just run."

"I said I'm not running anymore!" Alfred rounded on him. "Who're you to tell me what I can and can't do?" He was silent as they glared at each other, the footsteps getting louder. "Leave if you're not willing."

"Nein." Ludwig said firmly. "We will not be split up again."

"Then what are we supposed to—?" The words were barely out of Alfred's mouth before shadowy forms ran around the bend and right at them.

* * *

"Sadiq, are you doing all right?"

"Evet," the Turk panted, though he sounded pained. "I will be… okay."

Matthew sighed. He knew Sadiq was lying. It was quite obvious when he was. Francis gave Matthew a worried look, and Matthew and he shared the same thought between them: They needed to find a place to rest, and if they didn't find one soon, Sadiq would most likely lose consciousness.

They rounded a bend (Matthew knew this because Wynston muttered a pained 'Sonofabitch!' before saying, "Yup. That's a wall!") and he felt his way along with one hand outstretched, feeling the wall. He bit his lip to keep from crying out as his hand slipped into a nook. Matthew was about to pull it back out when an idea struck him.

Acting quickly, he tugged Sadiq around, not minding his alarmed squirming and mutterings, stuffing him in the three-foot-wide crevice. Francis followed, pushing Matthew further down into it. Matthew held his breath, hoping that it was large enough to contain all of them.

Francis caught Arthur by the arm (as evident by his harsh "Bloody hell!") and pulled him forcibly inside, subduing him with a hand clamped over his mouth.

"Wynston, Lovi, Feli! Come here!" Francis called, and the nations and the state felt their way (agonizingly slow) to the crack in the wall. Feliciano was pulled in first, shuttled in along with his brother ("Get your fucking hands _off_ me, wine bastard!" "Heh, it's not like I can, cher.") into the middle, Wynston cramming himself in just in time, the Bloodhounds running past without a second glance, their shouting too loud to hear their heavy breathing.

After a minute or so, when they could no longer hear the mens' footsteps or see the streams from their flashlights, Wynston shimmied out, followed by Arthur, Francis, and everyone else.

When they were out, Arthur promptly punched Francis hard in the arm.

"Aïe! That hurt, mon chéri." He pouted as he rubbed the forming bruise.

"You bloody well deserved it, pulling me in there like that with no explanation at all!" Arthur snapped back.

"What did you expect me to do?" Francis flashed back. "Give you an entire speech about why I was trying to save your life?"

Arthur was about to retort when Wynston said, "Hey, how far does that crack go inta that wall?"

Matthew put his arm through until he could feel the other side… the open space of another pipe. "All the way through. Come on." He pulled Sadiq with him, Francis helping, the others following quickly, stuffing themselves into the tiny space with much huffing and swearing. Once they made it out on the other side, Wynston pointed down the tunnel.

"That way," he said. "I don't see any lights or hear anythin'."

They all conceded with hesitation, now more than ever just wanting to get out of the damned pipe system.

Within moments, they blindly rounded a corner, running at a break-neck speed, not noticing until it was too late, that they were running into a group of people that seemed to be lying in wait for them. Matthew had just enough time to twist Sadiq around so that he was out of harm's way and give a startled yelp before he and the others collided with the strangers.

* * *

Translations:

Evet-Yes

A Word From the Writer: Aaaannnnd, cue snowball! Lol, if they formed themselves into a human boulder they could totally run those men down like Indiana Jones! *geekalicious* And how big are they tunnels anyway? Well, you're about to find out!


	38. From Problem to Problem

**Of course things get worse!  
**

Warning: Angst, chase, suspense, injuries, someone passes out, drama.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**From Problem to Problem**

They all tumbled on top of each other, writhing in a heap of bodies.

It was so dark that it was hard to make out faces, even if they were close to their own. At first, no one dared speak, afraid of what would happen if they did.

Then, "… Dammit, Ivan, you're crushing my arm!"

"Nyet. I am nowhere near you, Alfred." Ivan's voice came from a few feet away in the pile.

Alfred wrinkled his brow. "What…? Then who's…?" The American's heart leaped into his throat at the sight of the shadowy form moving near him.

"Alfred?" Hands reached out to find his shoulders, moving along them to his face. They lingered a bit on his glasses before venturing higher to brush over his ahoge. Alfred shivered and the other man pulled him into an embrace. "Alfred, it is you. Thank God…"

"Artie? What the hell?" Alfred looked around. "Is everyone else here, too?" He stumbled out of the pile and said, "Wynston? Wynston!"

"Right here, Pa."

"Oh, thank goodness."

Ludwig stood and slipped his brother off of his back, leaning him up against a wall. "Sound off!"

"Alfred!"

"Wynston!"

"Arthur,"

"Yao,"

"Ugh… K-Kiku…"

"Dammit, fratello, stop clinging to me—Lovino!"

"Pastaaa~!"

A pause.

"Okay… so Feliciano's here. Ahem, continue."

"M-Matthew,"

"Francis~!"

There was a harsh cough. "S-Sadiq…"

"Ivan,"

"Right," Ludwig said, glancing over at the Prussian passed out beside him to make sure he was still there. "And Gilbe—wait, bruder!"

"What's going on?" Arthur demanded hesitantly. It took a lot to make Ludwig sound _that_ frightened. "Is Gilbert well?"

"He's gone!" Ludwig said, looking around, reaching out blindly in the dark. "Verdammt. What I wouldn't give for a flashlight… I must have dropped it in the tunnels."

"Everyone, feel around for Gilbert!" Arthur commanded and immediately felt a hand grope his behind. "Francis!"

"Quoi, cher? I am just looking~"

"Then look somewhere else!"

"Oh… but it feels like I need to investigate more here~"

"Get your slimy hands off me, frog!"

"Fine," Francis moved off of him and not a second later, there was a yell and a slapping sound. Francis groaned. "Aïe! What did you do that for, chéri?"

"Don't ask stupid questions, wine bastard, and keep your hands _off_ me and my fratello!"

"Francis, this is serious. Could you please act it?" Arthur snapped.

Francis smirked in the dark. "But, cher, I am _firmly_ serious."

Arthur huffed and muttered a 'shut up', turning around to look, only to bump his nose into something solid. He peered up.

"Looking for something, comrade?" Ivan asked, and at first Arthur was confused. Then he realized that his hands were _way_ too low to be good. He quickly snatched them up and laughed weakly, darting past Ivan and nearly tripping over Sadiq—who was still sitting on the floor.

"Hey! Watch your feet, British klutz!"

Arthur apologized and was just about to feel around an unchecked part of the wall when he felt hands grab him and pull him up close to a hard chest, spinning him around in the process. A knife was pressed to his neck. The hands holding him were shaking and he could feel blood ooze from a shallow cut on his throat from the tip of the blade.

"Nobody move!" Everyone froze. The man clicked on a flashlight in his other hand, holding it under his chin. "I have an stuffy British nag and I'm not afraid to use him!"

Arthur immediately went from scared out of his mind to furious to the core. He wriggled out of the man's grip and snatched up the flashlight, pointing it at him so that the light attacked his eyes.

"Gilbert, you selfish arse! We were looking for you!"

Gilbert threw his hands up to shield his eyes from the harsh light and squinted. "Heh, don't get unawesomely upset, fairy princess, I was only joking. Kesesese!"

Ludwig marched over to him and yanked on his ear. Gilbert gave a harsh cry. "Du verdammter Blödmann! What is wrong with you?"

"Es tut mir leid! Es tut mir leid!" Gilbert said until Ludwig let go. In the light of the flashlight, Ludwig looked even more scary than in regular daylight when angry. "Jeez," Gilbert rubbed his ear. "None of you can take a joke."

"That was no joke!" Ludwig growled. "You nearly gave me a heart attack! You are lucky I didn't pull your ear off!"

Ivan took out his pipe. "Gilbert is in need of some punishment, da? I would be happy to oblige~"

Gilbert backed himself against the wall. "Wait! You all thought I was dead and now here I am, safe and sound, and you'll let that psychopath kill me?!"

Arthur shrugged. "Well, you _would_ deserve it."

"I cannot save you this time, ami." Francis replied.

"What did you just call me, Gilbert?" Ivan prompted, smiling creepily as he patted his pipe in the palm of his gloved hand.

"Nothing! My speech is slurred!" Gilbert slid down the wall to sit at the foot. "Ha… Damn, all that joking has me winded."

"Here," Matthew said, venturing forward. "Let me check your back—"

"Hayır," Sadiq grumbled from on the floor. "I… my ankle… I need help standing."

Matthew paused, midst, unsure of what to do.

Yao stepped forward. "I will do." He crouched down to lift up Gilbert's shirt; it was soaked in blood. He stuck out his hand and motioned with his fingers. "Flashlight," Arthur handed it to him and they all watched as Yao ran his fingers over the bandages, examining them. Gilbert flinched, biting back a groan.

"Ai-ya," Yao shook his head. "I am surprised that you could stand."

"Kesese! I am so awesome I can do anything when I'm sick." Gilbert laughed again, but was cut off by a raspy cough. "Uh… Yao… turn-turn that flashlight back on. It's so damn dark…"

"Dude," Alfred said. "What're you talking about? It's still on."

Gilbert stiffened. "W-what? What's going on?"

"He's lost too much blood." Arthur grabbed one of Gilbert's hands. "Your hands are cold."

"Thanks for informing me." Gilbert said flatly, snatching his hand back. "I'm not going to pass out again, am I?"

"You'd better not." Arthur replied, handing him a flask. "Water. Drink it. Lots of it."

"But… I'm not that thirsty… more sleepy…"

"Drink it bloody git or you'll die!"

Gilbert grudgingly took the water, mumbling something about awesomely haunting them all if they let him die. He drank down a few gulps, but a growl from Arthur told him to drink more.

When Arthur was satisfied, Gilbert gave back the flask, trying to get to his feet, though not succeeding.

"Don't move," Ludwig walked over. "I will carry you."

Gilbert snorted. "Like I would let that happen… consciously. You'll only hurt yourself, bruder. And you need your back."

"Now is not the time to be gal ant, bastard." Lovino growled.

"I will carry him," Ivan suggested with a smile. Gilbert tensed. "If he wants."

Gilbert looked stuck, but he eventually sighed and said, "All right. My bruder is tired. And don't you try to tell me otherwise, West, because I know you." Ludwig, who had been about to say something, shut his mouth. Gilbert looked up at Ivan. "Just… be gentle, ja?"

All Ivan gave in answer was a smile, and Gilbert looked to be having second thoughts as he was scooped up and he clung to Ivan's back. He made sure to keep his hands clasped around the Russian's throat just in case.

With that, they all headed out of the bunker, emerging in a shallow river. They slowed so that no one could hear their splashing and looked around.

"Where are we?" Kiku asked, hand on his katana where it hung at his side.

Wynston walked out further, scanning the forest before them. "I dunno… gimme a second…"

Sadiq heard men calling to each other not far behind them, voices echoing out of the mouth of the tunnel from which they just came. "We might not have a second." He was breathing heavily, as if he couldn't get enough air. "I… don't feel well."

Matthew clutched the man's arm more securely as he said, "We can't keep running like this. We have to find shelter. We need to rest and give Sadiq and Gilbert some time to get better."

"Wynston?" Alfred asked anxiously.

"I'm tryin'!" he flashed back, more out of fear than anger.

"Well, try harder!" Arthur snapped, slipping his pistol out of its holster.

"Dammit," Wysnton swore, practically pulling out his hair. "Marge is a lot better at this!"

Alfred felt his heart drop into his stomach at the name and he felt a new rush of tears come to his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. The time for grieving was over. Fixing all of this would be what his baby wanted, and he wasn't going to let her death slow him down. She still had her other brothers and sisters that needed help.

Wynston then gave a cry of triumph and pointed to a dense copse of trees just across the river.

Without a word, everyone followed. They were anxious to get out of the open as quickly as possible, but they also wanted to keep quiet. So they made their way across the river at an agonizingly slow pace, on tiptoe as not to disturb the water, the sound of mens' voices getting closer and closer every second.

Since Matthew was helping Sadiq along, he was the slowest. And everyone in their haste seemed to forget about him. His heart pounded against his ribs as the voices neared, sounding close to the mouth of the tunnel. Beside him, Sadiq's shallow breaths came faster.

And then his foot caught a rock.

A cry clawed its way out of his throat, but at the last moment Matthew thought to hold it in. All he gave was a squeak as he fell, throwing both arms around Sadiq and moving so that he took the most damage instead of the already injured man.

He gave a grunt, practically a scream in his throat, as he landed on his knee on the hard stones of the river, feeling a great shock of pain shoot up from it. Held tightly to his side, safe from the larger rocks of the river, Sadiq's breath warmed Matthew's cheek.

"Are you all right?" Matthew asked.

Sadiq gave him a dazed look, as if he were sleeping with his eyes open. "Mattie…" His words were barely a whisper. "My damn leg…" And he closed his eyes.

Matthew felt Sadiq's full weight slump against him and the Canadian's heart gave an alarmed flutter. He shook the Turk.

"Sadiq?" he whispered. Then his voice rose to what sounded close to a squeak. "Sadiq, wake up. Sadiq!" The men's voices reminded him that they had to get to the trees. But everyone had left him…

… a shoe appeared by him, and Matthew nearly shrieked, looking up.

Alfred and Ivan were standing over them.

"Sadiq, he—" Matthew began, but Alfred shushed him.

"Later," he muttered, scooping Matthew up in his arms. Ivan did the same with Sadiq. At that, they broke into a dead run, not caring if anyone heard or not. It was either that, or go the slow, cautious way and risk being spotted.

They got to the trees just in time to see a group of men emerge from the tunnel, looking around, flashlights flickering on the trees.

"Down!" Kiku hissed and everyone dropped to the forest floor just as the flashlights passed over their heads. Matthew gave a grunt of pain as he knee was jostled, but bit his lip to keep in whimpers, tears gathering at the edges of his eyes at the pain.

A few minutes passed before the men left, flashlights fading into the distance. They all waited a few moments to make sure they were gone before rising to their feet.

Alfred set Matthew down on his good leg, giving him a worried look. "What happened?"

Matthew exhaled shakily before saying, "I fell,"

"Did you hurt yourself, mon fils?" Francis asked frantically, shouldering his way over to him.

Matthew swallowed. For once he felt grateful for Francis's concern. He may not have been able to have experienced it again if something had gone terribly wrong. "My knee… it doesn't feel broken, though."

Yao walked over and stooped to examine it. Gently, he pushed on the kneecap with his finger. The joint moved, as if floating, and Matthew gave a whimper at the pain. The Chinese man stood. "Dislocated,"

Francis gave a relieved sigh. "Oh, merci Dieu," He reached out and ran his fingers down Matthew's cheeks. "I will not let you out of my sight again, lapin. I'm sorry,"

"You don't have to apologize, Papa," Matthew said with a little smile. Then he remembered. "Sadiq?" He looked at Ivan, who was still holding Sadiq in his arms. Matthew walked over to him, fingers pressing against the Turk's neck to find a pulse. At first, he couldn't find it, and he panicked. But when his fingers brushed over the soft heartbeat, he relaxed. "He's still alive." Matthew murmured. He blinked his eyes, startled that his vision was blurring. He reached up to adjust his glasses and felt wetness trickle down his cheek. Why was he crying? _Just relief,_ Matthew mused. If anything, Matthew didn't want to be part of the reason the man died.

Ivan looked down at Sadiq. "He is so limp. He must have fainted."

"Oh verdammt," Gilbert growled, leaning up against a tree. Ludwig held his arm so that he wouldn't fall. "Not another one."

Feliciano gave a soft sob. "Is… is Sadiq going to die?"

"No, you idiot," Lovino snapped back, though he sounded apprehensive. "He's just passed out. Like the potato bastard's brother just a few minutes ago…"

"We need to get him to a safe place." Arthur said. "Him and Gilbert both. We can't move around a lot until they get better. We'll have to find some sort of shelter to camp out in for a few days…"

"I think there's a town close by." Wynston said. "We could go there. I'm sure most of the houses are abandoned."

 _"No,"_ Alfred said, so harshly that everyone tensed. "No, I'm not going back to another town. Not after…" His voice broke and he looked at the ground. He cleared his throat and said, his voice calmer now, "It's too dangerous. We can't risk it."

Wynston looked hurt by the tone in his father's voice. "Pa… I've scouted this town millions of times since the Uprisin'. I knew a lot of families there. They're all gone. This ain't a city. It's a few small neighborhoods with a shoppin' center an' a school. There's nothin' of worth there. That's why everyone left. There's nothin' else to loot, no resources to come by. But as far as I know, you have everythin' you need. How do we know if we don't try?"

"No," Alfred insisted. "Don't you try to convince me. That happened the last time!" Alfred wasn't aware that his voice had risen to a shout until everyone was staring at him.

Wynston blinked and his voice grew small. "But, there are plenty of you to defend whatever shelter we choose. An' ya still have weapons an' ammo, an'—"

Alfred's mind was filled with panic and rage, too lost in his emotions to think his words through before he said them, and before he knew it, he was shouting, "You're sister's dead because of that kind of thinking!"

The look of grief in Wynston's hazel eyes made Alfred's heart plummet. His mouth was dry and he was shaking. He didn't know what to say.

Wynston cleared his throat. "Which one?" It was almost as if he didn't want to know the answer.

Alfred felt his eyes burn again, but he _would not_ cry in front of his son, though Marge's death was still so fresh in his mind. "Montana,"

"Marge?" Wynston said, his voice small as he looked at the ground. He expelled a shaky breath. "How?"

Alfred shook his head, not wanting to recall the details. "You don't need to know that."

"She was murdered, wasn't she?" Wynston flashed Alfred a stony look. "That would be the only reason I could think of as to why you refuse to tell me."

Alfred chewed his bottom lip, his throat growing scratchy. "Yes," he croaked.

Wynston looked at the ground again, clenching and unclenching his fists. After a moment, he looked back up again, glaring in hate. "You're lyin'!"

Alfred stared at him in disbelief. "No, son, I'm not."

Wynston kept up his anger. "You are! She's just… gone. Somewhere, right? She left an'… an' you don't know if she's alive or not, but she's Marge an' she can shoot the edge of a card at ninety feet, and she can handle herself, an'…" His eyes filled with tears.

Alfred felt his own tears coming on, but he warded them away as he put a hand on Wynston's shoulder. "Rider, you know I wouldn't lie about this."

"N-no…" Wynston sniffed and wiped his face—much in the same way Alfred did with his sleeve. Yep, it was obvious that Alfred had raised him, Arthur couldn't help but notice as he studied the snot on his sleeve with distaste. "I know… but she's _Marge_. She was the last one I thought… she could make it…"

Alfred wanted to embrace him, but he knew it would damage the state's pride. So he just continued to look at him as Wynston softly cried, the state finishing after a minute and taking a couple of deep, tremulous breaths.

"I…" Alfred rubbed at his eyes in frustration. When would the hurt stop? "I shouldn't have told you this here, not now… I'm sorry I yelled at you, but the last time I saw her as herself was before she went into a town. When she came back…" He exhaled heavily. "I just don't want the same fate for you, son."

Wynston nodded and gave a watery smile. "It's fine. But your arm…" He motioned to Alfred's upper arm. "Did it hurt?"

Alfred put a hand over the scar, hidden beneath a blood-soaked sleeve, pressing it until he had to grit his teeth for the pain. Somehow doing that made him feel closer to Marge and less guilty for her death. "It still hurts."

"So I guess the town is a no go?" Arthur asked, anxious to move on.

"No," Alfred said, straightening. He was determined to persevere for Marge. "No, you're right, Wynston. We're perfectly capable of protecting ourselves in a large group. And if the town is near, it would be pretty desolate. I don't want to be on the run anymore." This was it. He wouldn't let his fears hold him back. Not now. _I'm staying strong for you, baby girl._

Wynston motioned through the trees. "That way, then."

* * *

No translations

Quoi?-What?

Du verdammter Blödmann-You fucking dumbass

Es tut mir leid-I'm sorry

Mon fils-My son

A Word From the Writer: Off to another town! I must warn you, things from here on out are about to get a lot more intense. Let's just say they are forced to further acknowledge the horrible reality of their situation... Btw, that whole "Shooting the edge of a card at 90 ft." is a reference to Annie Oakley, one of (if not the best) female sharpshooter in history. And yes, she could actually split a card by its edge at a distance of 90 ft. Yeah, no one fucked with her.

So, lot's to look forward to... and think about for a week until my next post. XD


	39. Safehouse

**Here come the troubles...  
**

Warning: Angst, injuries, RusAme fluff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

  
**Safehouse**   


They were in the town within ten minutes, Francis helping Matthew limp along and Ivan carrying the still unconscious Sadiq.

The group made sure to stay as hidden as possible, even though the town appeared abandoned. They kept to the shadows and as quiet as death.

Alfred chose a house placed a good distance away from most of the others. The place was two stories tall with a basement. Most of the furniture was intact as well as the windows, though it looked to have been looted, as a T.V. stand devoid of said device thus proved. Glass littered the floor beneath some windows and the lock on the front door was completely punched in, a hole in the wood from where it was once nailed.

Ludwig studied it. "I don't like that. We will have to board this door up."

"How the hell will we get out, then, potato dumbass?" Lovino hissed back, using his scorn to hide his fear.

"There is a door at the back." Ivan said, returning to the living room after inspecting the house, having placed Sadiq on the couch upon entry. "And the lock is still intact."

"The windows will have to be boarded, too." Yao added.

"The hammer falls will echo throughout the town." Arthur said, sitting down in a torn armchair. "Let's hope that everyone truly has left."

"We will go out tomorrow," Alfred said. "We'll get wood and check around. But one whiff of another person and we're out. We can't afford to take anymore risks."

Francis helped Matthew to a chair and sat him down in it. "Try not to move, d'accord, lapin?" He then said to Alfred, "You will have to fix his knee."

Alfred nodded and knelt in front of his brother. "Hold his legs down." he instructed Francis, and the Frenchman complied. He then looked up at Matthew, who looked pale and was breathing rather heavily. "This is gonna hurt a little."

"Dammit, Al," Matthew said, squinting his eyes shut. "You don't have to tell me. Just get on with it."

Alfred looked back down at Matthew's dislocated knee and grabbed the Canadian's ankle. Gently, he lifted the leg until it was at a forty-five degree angle. At that point, Matthew yelped and said, "N-no, Alfred. Stop."

Alfred set his leg back down. He felt guilty that Matthew was like this. He should have looked out more for his brother. "I'm gonna try again. Tell me when you can't go any further."

Matthew nodded and bit his lip, Alfred moving his leg slowly upwards again. The process of ups and downs continued until tears escaped Matthew's eyes at the pain. It felt like his whole leg was on fire.

The whole while, Francis held Matthew's thighs down, keeping him from jerking away in pain and further hurting himself. He saw Matthew crying and he said, "I'm sorry, mon cher, I should have been there for you. This is all my fault. I'm the one who should be looking out for you. I don't know what I was thinking…" His eyes blurred with tears and he looked back down at Matthew's trembling thighs. It hurt him seeing Matthew in pain like this. It hurt him even worse knowing that he could have prevented it if only he hadn't raced like a coward into the trees, not minding to check and see if Matthew was behind him.

_I will never let him get hurt again._ Francis promised himself.

Arthur eventually came up and put a hand on Alfred's shoulder. "That's enough for now, I think. He will need further exercises to put it back in place, but let him rest for the night."

Matthew moved his leg out of Alfred's grip, as if afraid the American wouldn't listen to Arthur and keep on going. He was embarrassed that he was crying in front of all the other nations; he was embarrassed, being the one who often hiked in the wilderness and knew every risk and precaution, that he was the one to be careless enough to be injured. "Thanks… is Sadiq still knocked out?"

"Yao is tending to him." Arthur replied. "His pulse has strengthened, and that's good, but he hasn't opened his eyes."

"What's wrong with him?" Feliciano inquired from his place sitting on the floor beside the couch that Sadiq was laying on, watching Yao administer to him. "Is he sick?"

"He has a fever," Yao confirmed, dabbing the Turk's forehead with a damp piece of cloth torn from the sleeve of his changshan. "His ankle… it is swollen."

"An infection," Gilbert said, sitting across the room, canteen in hand. Ludwig had been dubiously watching him as he gave instructions for Gilbert to drink water. "I've had one of those before in a wound. It was a bitch, but my awesomeness got me through it." Ludwig glared down at him and Gilbert shut up, taking another mouthful of water.

"We are no longer nations." Ivan said, staring at the wall. "We cannot recover from a wound as quickly as we once could. We are mere humans now, and humans die from this all of the time without proper medical treatment."

Feliciano's eyes filled with tears. "Then he is going to die?"

"Don't get yourself into a fit, fratello," Lovino said, though his voice was shaky at the thought of them being susceptible to anything and everything now. They were all like delicate eggs just waiting to be crushed. "He has a chance, so he could make it. God knows the bastard is determined as hell…"

They all sat around in a circle on the torn and sullied living room rug that night, too afraid to start a fire for who the smoke may attract. Alfred brought out the radio he'd snagged from the burning cabin and placed it in the center, twiddling the knob to find a working station. It took about five minutes, and all of them were tense throughout, but a voice finally faded into being.

"… thing is gone. All the monuments, all the national symbols, everything that identifies with what this lying, cheating country is, is now destroyed. Your leaders have been murdered. We saw fit to exterminate all those who brought about this crisis so that we may establish a new order."

Alfred was scowling, wishing he could blow the guy up just by glaring at the radio.

"This is the dawn of a new era of government, and we shall be the first to lead it. For all of those who have known us recently, we are Organization Coup, but seeing as the coup has been successfully carried out, we will now style ourselves as The Fellowship of Man. Even as I am speaking we are making a place for ourselves in the capital. We have driven out or executed all officials of the old regime and are rebuilding and reworking the government in a way that we consider the best for the people.

"Our former way of government was harmful and reckless to our society to the point that we could not function under it. Democracy is a dead art—no true freedom is derived from it, as you have all recently witnessed. It was only a mask for more devious activities. As so, we abolish democracy and denounce anyone who continues to uphold it. For all of those who wish to refuse our rule, you will be found and severely punished. Everyone must participate and so everyone must agree. This is the foundation of a perfect society."

"Lies," Alfred ground out. "All motherfucking lies…"

The anchor continued. "As you all know by now, the United States of America is no more. Most of you consider yourselves apart from the title of American, so we propose a change in name. We have decided that this new country of ours will be called Elysium, a celestial place for the fallen Greek heroes of old, and you, our loyal citizens, Elysians (1). And we shall not be considered separate within disjointed states. No, we will be one country, a whole. For were the states not a tool used by the former government to keep us apart and weak?"

"No," Alfred growled. Beside him, Wynston put a hand on his shoulder. "No, that's my fucking _name_. It can't be changed."

"But, sadly, our new country cannot be born if another still exists in its place. As so, we are asking everyone to look out for an Alfred F. Jones. He is the embodiment of the United States and all of its devastating lies. He has dark blond hair, wears glasses, stands at five feet, nine inches tall and is normally loud and stubborn. His picture will be posted around the country. There will be a gracious reward for anyone who brings him in—to the tune of five million dollars… well, that is, in the old monetary system. We shall be changing that soon, too.

"And for all of those who have suffered under this traitorous government and in this country as a whole, you will be pleased to know that if and when we have Mr. Jones, we will be sure to kill him slowly and painfully for all of the wrongs he caused you.

"As for other news—"

But they didn't get to hear about the other news, as at that moment, Alfred snatched the radio from off of the floor and hurled it against a wall. The force of his swing was so powerful it shattered into pieces upon impact. Arthur immediately shot to his feet.

"What the fucking hell if wrong with you, Alfred?!" he shouted. "That was our only link to what was going on in the world!"

But Alfred just looked somberly up at him. "What world, Artie? If there is one, I don't think we want to know it."

No one said a word after that, as they arranged their sleeping bags, too shocked about the news to talk to each other. Arthur was still fuming at Alfred, but he kept his silence, knowing that if he began an argument with the younger nation now, it would only end up wounding Alfred's pride more than it already had been.

Ivan and Ludwig fetched a mattress from an upstairs bedroom and laid it out on the floor. Yao and Alfred lifted Sadiq carefully from off of the couch and moved him onto the mattress, covering him with his sleeping bag. Matthew was then carried by Francis to the couch, his sleeping bag with him. As soon as Matthew was situated, his injured leg resting in a cramped position on a pillow between his knees, Francis kissed him on the brow and stroked his hair before laying out his own sleepingbag directly below the Canadian. Matthew's mind went back to Sadiq. Maybe if he hadn't tripped in the river, the Turk would still be awake. It was enough to keep him awake, staring at the ceiling for hours even after everyone else had fallen asleep. Then again, his knee partly helped with keeping him up.

Alfred was awake as well. Although he didn't like Wynston seeing him clamber into a sleeping bag with Ivan, he figured why not? It wasn't like it could get any worse for him. So he laid beside Ivan staring at his son, wondering how soon it would be until he was taken from him as well by this 'Fellowship of Man.' The thought roiled his stomach and brought tears to his eyes.

"You are tense," Ivan muttered after most everyone was asleep.

Alfred sighed. "I know,"

"You should not be."

Alfred was indignant. He turned over onto his side to glare at the Russian. "And why the fuck not?"

Ivan just smiled. "Because I am here." He kissed Alfred's forehead. "And I will not let anything happen to you."

Alfred blinked in surprise, feeling a faint fluttering in his stomach. Immediately, the words came to his mouth, the ones he'd been brooding over for nigh on a week and a half. "I know why you said I needed you."

Ivan ran his fingers down Alfred's bare shoulder. "You have finally come to an answer, then?"

"I need you because…" Alfred felt weird saying this, but all of his respect as a nation was gone in his opinion. Screw pride. It had all been stripped away from him. There was nothing for him to lose. He took a deep breath and said, "I need you because you know me at my worst and you know me at my best. You're my enemy, so you know everything about me."

"But Arthur knows everything about you also." Ivan said. "He raised you."

"Yes, but," Alfred licked his lips. His mouth was dry. "All that fighting we did made me realize… we have a lot in common. Our goals are the same. And something that Artie doesn't have is dedication to truly knowing someone and understanding them. With him, it takes time and effort… as can be explained with his rivalry with Francis and my revolution. But you," Alfred was shaky, and he knew Ivan could feel it, but he had never told Ivan this, had never told anyone this. "You were dedicated. You refused to be ignorant about the other side. You were determined to find out everything about me. I was just infiltrating your life because I wanted the information to win the war, but you… you did it partly because it interested you."

Ivan cocked his head. "And how did you come to that conclusion?"

Alfred swallowed. "I… uh… I knew my stuff was being taken and my letters intercepted. And the thing was, they had nothing to do with the war. They were private items and private letters… it pissed me off at the time, but I knew you must be doing it. Your government was concerned with my government at the time, not necessarily about me."

"Is true," Ivan reasoned with a smile. "You are getting warmer~"

Alfred blushed as he looked down. "Considering all of that, I-I guess I realized, but didn't really want to acknowledge that I… _liked_ you. Sure, I was attracted sexually, but that was just from the war. But emotionally… I pushed those thoughts away. For a long time I hated them. I used to keep myself busy in order to keep it out of my mind, but now… there's nothing to keep those thoughts at bay."

"So, what is your answer, Alfred?" Ivan tipped up Alfred's chin so that they were looking at each other. "Do not be afraid. I will not judge."

Alfred hoped that the night hid his flushed face. Well, this was it. It wasn't like they had all the time in the world to coax the words out of each other, so he might as well say them. "I-I need you, Ivan, because I…" He took a deep breath and said, his voice but a whisper, "I love you,"

Ivan smiled warmly and said, "And I have loved you, Alfred, for longer than you know. I have been trying to make you realize that from the day I first met you."

Alfred felt like a wall of sorts had been broken down inside him, and with the shattering of it, came the rush of tears. "Well… you coulda been less of an asshole!" _At last_. was all he could think as Ivan embraced him.

_At last._

And on the other side of the room, still awake on the couch, Matthew smiled.

_It certainly took him long enough. Everyone knew it but him. What a hoser…_ And with a content mind, he shut his eyes, and sleep seized him like the sweet waves of a stormy sea.

* * *

Translations:

D'accord-Okay

References:

1-Elysium was a celestial place constructed from the legends of Ancient Greece where those related to the gods or heroes reside in the afterlife. It was overseen by Hades. (And, no, I was not aware that there was an upcoming movie of the same name... ironically).

A Word From the Writer: Aw, so cute~! Just a little (kinda) quote from Erich Fromm. You know, _Immature love says: I love you because I need you. Mature love says: I need you because I love you._ Our America is maturing (about damn time, too)! If you want more feels, listen to "A Thousand Years" by Christina Perri while reading it. So what if it's from Twilight (it was the only good thing that came out of it). It makes me cry, don't judge me! :'(


	40. Just One More Reason

**Look for symbolism in this chapter!  
**

Warning: Angst, revolting scenes.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

 

**Just One More Reason**

Kiku woke at the break of dawn. He crawled out of his sleeping bag and grabbed his katana, swinging it over his shoulder, deciding to explore more of the house.

He stopped by the kitchen first, opening the cabinets and not being surprised to find that most everything had been taken. As soon as he opened the fridge, a smell so foul hit him that he would have vomited if he hadn't closed it shortly after. The combination of rotting meat and putrid fruits and vegetables lingered in the air for a good while.

The good news: there was a gas stove, which Kiku considered incredibly lucky, seeing as most Americans had long since moved on to electric. The surface and the burners were a little charred from use, but when he turned it on, he could smell the gas, so it still worked.

Upstairs, the damage wasn't much different. There were two children's bedrooms and one master bedroom. The pictures around the house and the torn posters on the wall indicated that a family of five lived here: with two daughters who couldn't have been older than eight with their parents and an infant brother. The sight made him sad. He picked a stuffed rabbit from off of one of the daughter's beds, the material torn and the toy gutted, the stuffing bulging out through the slit. It looked as if the family had left in a hurry, not bothering to grab anything on the way out.

 _We never had any warning either._ Kiku mused. _And we never knew it would be this bad._

Feeling somber, Kiku made his way back downstairs, going down a hallway to a door that led to the basement. He opened it and headed slowly down.

It was dark and damp, and looked to be empty. But halfway down the steps, a smell hit Kiku's nostrils, so strong and fetid that he scrambled to cover his nose and mouth with a cloth, but he could still smell the odor.

 _Something must be dead down here_. Kiku thought as he made it to the bottom. _Perhaps a wild animal that had gotten in or the family dog._ He took a flashlight out of his pocket and clicked it on, only for him to drop it on the floor a moment later.

It came so fast that Kiku couldn't stop it; bile forced its way up from his stomach and soon he was throwing up, his throat burning, tears coming to his eyes from the shock. When he was finished, he wiped his mouth with his sleeve, breathing hard, breathing in the stench of death and decay. He didn't bother retrieving the flashlight as he ran up the stairs and slammed the door shut behind him, hand going over his mouth, his heart pounding.

Yao and Arthur were groggily making their way toward him. Their eyes went wide when they saw him, rushing forward.

"What is wrong, Kiku?" Yao asked, concerned.

"You look as pale as a ghost." Arthur said, examining the door suspiciously. "What happened? Did you find something?"

Kiku swallowed, the bitter taste of bile in his mouth. His stomach was cramping and he felt like if threw up again, he would vomit his very insides. He looked up at both of them, shaking like mad. "The family who lived here," he said, his voice tremulous and raspy. "I do not think they ever left."

* * *

"This is so horrible." Francis said as they all stood gathered in the basement. The light of the flashlight was shaking as it shined on the rotting corpses of the family. Lovino handed it off to Ludwig.

"I can't… I can't look at it anymore, dammit." he said quietly.

Ludwig took it and directed it at the bodies, feeling terrible just standing there and staring.

"Ve~What is it, Lovi?" Feliciano called from upstairs. "Can I come down? It smells icky…"

"No," Arthur said. "No, stay up there, Feli." He then turned to Kiku, who looked shell shocked. "Who were they?"

"A family," Kiku replied with effort. "I do not know their names, but they were young. The two girls were around six and eight. And the baby…" He inhaled deeply and shook his head. "Who would do this?"

"I bet you this Organization did it." Alfred growled. "Bastards would do anything for power and killing off the opposition is one bloodthirsty way to do it."

Ivan stepped forward to examine the bodies. He used his scarf to cover his mouth and nose as he crouched down. They had been dead for a while, it seemed. Their skin was practically melting off their bones. Maggots were moving beneath the loose flesh, feasting. He stood and confirmed, "They were murdered. There are bullet wounds in them. Whoever came across this house took the family hostage and kept them in the basement. It looks like they starved them for a while before finally killing them. And the baby… he died long before the rest of his family was killed, yet the murderers thought it fit to give him a bullet as well."

"What has this world come to?" Wynston muttered somberly.

"Turn off that light." Matthew told Ludwig. The Canadian had insisted on being brought down here once he had heard the news, no matter what Francis said. He was determined to be an important player in this group, not to be forgotten like he had so many other times. "I can't look at them anymore."

Ludwig did so, all of them standing in the dark. The only source of light came from the cracked door up the stairs.

"What should we do with them?" Yao asked.

"I don't know," Arthur sighed. "If we bring them up, their stench will attract who knows what and linger for days. But I would feel like a monster if we didn't give them some sort of funeral."

"We will leave them down here." Ludwig said what everyone was thinking, but were too scared to announce. "Board up the door and carve a memento into it."

They didn't say a word as they made their way back up the stairs, Alfred helping Matthew along as he hopped along on one foot and Gilbert trying his best to console Lovino, who looked to be on the verge of a mental breakdown.

When they reached the top, Feliciano darted forward to interrogate his brother, only to frown when he found that Lovino looked pale and sick. He gave Arthur a quizzical look. "Ve~What happened? What was down there?"

Arthur shook his head. "Some dead animal. It got in and now it's rotting. We've decided to board up the door so that it doesn't smell quite so bad." He felt guilty referring to the family massacred downstairs as a bothersome animal carcass, but he didn't want the Italian to end up like his brother.

Feliciano looked sad with the announcement. "Poor thing." And he was led by Wynston back into the living room with Lovino.

They used the their firewood (aka, the loose floorboards or other pieces of wood they could find around the house) to board up the door. Ludwig and Ivan found some nails in the garage and a hammer, and they watched as Ivan pounded them into the door.

When they were finished they took a step back.

"What should we say?" Francis asked.

Arthur looked at Kiku. "Kiku, are you sure you found no information on who these people might be?"

"One," Kiku replied. "There was a Christmas card that they sent out… they are the Anderson's."

"Right," Gilbert said, taking out a pocketknife and carving into the wood. "The An-der-son Fa-mil-y… there." He moved away so everyone could see.

_The Anderson Family_

_R.I.P._

"Well," Matthew sighed. "I guess there really is nothing else we can say about them."

"Yes, there is." Alfred said and snatched the knife from Gilbert's hand, proceeding to carve more words into the board. When he was finished he folded the blade and tossed it back to Gilbert, who easily caught it.

_We Will Change This World For You_

_A Promise_

"That's a hefty promise." Arthur said, giving Alfred a small smile. "But I will undertake it with you, whatever the cost."

"Da," Ivan agreed. "This is not just survival anymore. This is war."

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: This house is sinister in more ways than one, and this is just the beginning. It will quickly lose its title of 'safehouse' shortly, I can tell you that. And, no, I do not take joy in writing scenes like this one. It was just to emphasize the fact that humanity has slipped to a whole new low (yes, it can go lower than some people go today, and that's pretty damn low)(like, almost HELL low)(haha "hell-low, Devil, we just decided to visit you early!" hell-low)(I'm punny)(no, really, that's how low)(they're playing limbo with the Devil)(... okay, I'll stop now).


	41. Jagged Little Pill

**This chapter will be a bit hard to swallow.  
**

Warning: Angst, injury, reminiscing.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Jagged Little Pill**

By the afternoon, they had all been assigned duties, aside from the unresponsive Sadiq, and the injured Gilbert and Matthew.

"Dammit, bruder," Gilbert swore angrily. "Let me do _something_. The gloominess around here is killing my awesomeness!"

"You will stay here and rest." Ludwig ordered. His tone left no room for argument.

So it was that they all split into two groups: Alfred, Ivan, Francis, Yao, and Wynston (the state had insisted, even though Alfred said no) would explore the neighborhood and look for supplies, while the others (Arthur, Kiku, Lovino, Ludwig, and Feliciano) would remain at the house to prepare it for human habitation.

"Stay safe," Arthur said firmly to Alfred before he departed.

Alfred nodded. "Don't worry, Artie. I'm not finished yet."

But Arthur watched them go, still feeling anxious about the whole situation. The last time they had split up in a town, it had been unfortunate, one time ending in tragedy.

"You are worried," Kiku observed as Arthur joined him in the kitchen. The Japanese man was laying out some canned food from his pack onto the table.

Arthur stood with his back to him, turning on the gas stove. "You're never wrong, Kiku." He struck a match and lit a burner, the blue flames flaring into being. He flicked the match through the air to put it out before turning around and leaning against the wall, rubbing his face with his hand. "All I ever do now is worry. Sure, I try to do work to cover it up, but… it never leaves me."

"You are not the only one." Kiku said, handing Arthur a can of soup and a can opener.

Arthur took both in hand nodding as he studied them. "The price we had to pay for this," he lifted the can opener. "How many more will we have to pay, and for what other trivial purpose?"

"You should not brood on the negative." Kiku advised. "It is not healthy and it will not help our situation."

Arthur sighed. "You're right." He set the can on the counter and opened it. He poured the soup into a pot that he had retrieved from one of the cabinets, putting it onto the lit burner. "Forgive me. I forgot myself."

"There is no need." Kiku replied with a wan smile. "I have my own concerns as well."

"You hide them well, then." Arthur said, stirring the soup and watching the chopped vegetables swirl in the broth before being handed another can.

Kiku sighed. "It does not come without a price."

Arthur scoffed somberly. "Doesn't everything?" He opened the can and poured more in.

"Suppressing one's emotions takes time and experience." Kiku said. "But doing so places you at the edge of society. It separates you from your friends and family… but I chose it because I did not want my emotions to affect me while deciding on difficult things, such as war and politics. I slaved at it, and I achieved it, but it cost me those close to me. I never let anyone in. No one really knows me, though they might believe they do. All of those who knew me before… I am practically a stranger to them now. They drifted away from me, because they thought I did not care, which is partly true. But now…" He ran a hand through his dark hair. "Now I wish I would have been less blind to how my future would be without them."

The shock left in Arthur from Kiku's confession made him lose himself for a moment. He said, "You know, I thought all of this was because of what happened when I was a Captain." _What am I saying?_ he thought, but his lips were already moving. There was no stopping the words spilling from them now. Kiku had shared something intimate with him and now he felt he had to share something of equal importance. "I remember the day as clear as anything. There was a storm. Vicious. Nothing I have ever seen before. The ship was bound to go down, I knew that. After the damage it had been done by Antonio's canons, I knew I had to make port. But I was greedy. I pursued a silver ship into the storm. Only when it disappeared did I realize what I had done.

"But I couldn't die. I knew that. My country depended on me. I realized how stupid I was thinking I could be a pirate and still expecting my nation to fare well. What would happen if I died? That was what I was thinking as we sunk." He swallowed hard. He was sweating. He had never revealed this to anyone before. "I took the last skiff out. It was horrible, seeing my mens' faces. And I knew as I watched her go under and all of the lives I was responsible for with her, that God would never forgive me. As soon as the Uprising happened, I knew it must be in payment for my greed and cowardice all those years ago." He looked at Kiku wonderingly. "But was it really cowardice? Was it really greed? Was it an awakening? If it wasn't for that storm, I might have been killed some other way and my people would have been left to suffer because of it. Well…" He paused to think. "I believe this is my second awakening. I will get through this, and when I do, I will be much stronger and wiser than ever before."

Kiku looked at him. "That sounds like a good belief."

Arthur stirred the soup. "Yeah, well… it's worth a go, isn't it?"

Ludwig walked in a sighed. "Sadiq's fever has gone up. His whole face and neck are red and I changed his bandages… his ankle… it looks bad."

"How bad?" Arthur asked, a spark of worry igniting in him. They couldn't lose another person. Not now.

Ludwig licked his lips. " _Very_ bad. The skin around it is swollen and bright red. The wound is oozing pus. The infection has gotten worse."

"God," Arthur muttered. "We need to get some medication in him."

"How?" Ludwig asked. "He's still not responding and we might choke him if we force a pill down his throat."

"It's worth a shot." Arthur said. "There's some penicillin in my bag. Get one and some water. You know what," He dropped the spoon and wiped off his hands on his pants. "I'll help. Kiku, can you watch the soup for me?"

Kiku nodded and Ludwig led Arthur back into the living room and to the mattress on which Sadiq was lying, unconscious. Feliciano was by his side, dabbing a wet rag on his head. He had tears in his eyes.

"His pulse is weak." The Italian reported as they joined him. "He's so hot… I don't know how anyone could survive this."

"It's going to be fine, Feliciano," Ludwig assured, nudging him aside. The Italian sniffled and went over to sit by his brother, who was watching from the couch.

"What are you doing?" Matthew asked in alarm as Ludwig slipped the pill bottle out and Arthur set a glass half full of water on the floor beside him. "No," he said firmly. He wished he could do something, but he was bound to the chair unless someone helped him. "Don't do that. You might kill him!"

"What else do you want us to do?" Arthur snapped, his voice a little more venomous than he meant it to be. He glared at Matthew. "He's dying, and it's either try this or let him slowly starve to death. Do you want that, or do you want him to have a chance?"

Matthew swallowed and looked at the floor. Arthur turned back to Sadiq. "Tip up his chin, Ludwig… have you ever fed your dogs pills before?"

"Ja," Ludwig replied. "But that was different. They weren't unconscious."

"I know," Arthur said. He himself wasn't sure about this, but there was no other way other than to just resign themselves to know that Sadiq was going to slip away slowly. "Give me a pill."

Ludwig dropped the pill in his palm and Arthur took a deep breath. "I'm going to wait until he exhales, but I'll only have a few seconds. Try to hold his head still. He'll thrash."

Ludwig nodded and Arthur waited. When the time was right, Arthur jabbed his fingers into Sadiq's mouth, hoping to God that he wasn't going to kill this man, shoving the pill down Sadiq's throat. As expected, the man began to turn his head away in an effort to breathe. He began to cough.

Arthur snatched up the glass of water, hands trembling, putting it to his lips and pouring a bit down his throat. Sadiq swallowed some instinctually, but continued to cough, choking on some. The Turk began to thrash his limbs, and Ludwig struggled to hold them down. Panic flashed within Arthur, and his heart threw itself painfully against his ribs.

"No, no," Arthur chanted, batting Ludwig's fingers away to hold up Sadiq's chin himself. His other hand, stroked the man's throat, encouraging him to swallow. "No, I won't let you die on me, dammit. Swallow it! Breathe!"

And, as if the Turk had heard, Arthur felt his throat move beneath his fingers and the man coughed a few more times before his breathing returned to normal.

When it was through, Arthur leaned back, sweating profusely, blood roaring in his ears. He was panting and his limbs felt like jelly.

 _Oh God._ he thought with horror. _I could have killed him._

Ludwig seemed to be thinking the same thing as he looked at him. "That was close."

"Yes," was all Arthur could say, too shaken to get out anything more.

In the corner of the room, sitting on his sleeping bag, Gilbert said, "As I said before, infections are some ugly bitches."

* * *

"Here's another one," Wynston said, nudging an abandoned bike with his foot.

"That's the third one we've found." Alfred replied with suspicion. "It's like everyone just left. Their houses look looted, but other than that, there's no sign that the owners packed up before they took off."

"Is true," Ivan agreed. He was investigating the inside of a truck through the windows. "And you would think that they would have taken their vehicles with them."

Francis shook his head, looking behind him, expecting to see someone sneaking up. "I don't like this feeling… something bad happened here. The people could not have just left all their belongings behind and fled. That family back at the house," He swallowed as he remembered. "They had young children. If they were sensible, they would have left long before they were caught."

"Shì," Yao muttered, fingers stroking over his wok. "Something is wrong. Those people we found in the other houses…" He shivered as he recalled their lifeless bodies, dispatched with a bullet or stabbed to death. "They could not have possibly murdered each other. They were all in a similar state of decay… someone got to them, someone cold, evil…"

"Christ," Wynston breathed, hunched over and prodding at something with his pocketknife. "Pa… I think ya might wanna see this."

Alfred walked over, foreboding twisting in his stomach. He looked over Wynston's shoulder and his mouth went dry.

"Prison jumpers," Alfred said, his voice barely a whisper. "Dammit, I didn't even consider…"

"That your many prisoners would escape and wreak havoc upon the towns?" Ivan finished for him and Alfred frowned. "Da, this is a problem."

Francis's eyes were wide. "We cannot stay here. Who knows where they went?"

"Francis is right," Yao said, walking over to examine the evidence. "How many of them are there?"

"Two jumpers…" Wynston reported. "Two too many."

"Jesus Christ," Alfred groaned, running a hand through his hair. "Everywhere we go is unsafe. We need to move."

"We should go back to the house." Francis said anxiously. "Now. Those prisoners might still be around and we cannot afford to be separated."

"Da," Ivan said, starting off back toward the house. "We can explore another time. Right now, we need to inform the others and fortify the house."

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Hahaha, uh oh. Whatever you do, _don't drop the soap._ It is their mating stance! O_O

Yes, and I am a fan of Alanis Morisette. In case anyone was wondering.


	42. Waking to a Nightmare

**Paranoia. It's a biotch!  
**

Warning: Angst, tension, threats, controversial topic.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Waking to a Nightmare**

Matthew jumped and nearly screamed when he heard a sharp knocking on the door. That couldn't possibly be them, could it? They had only been gone for about ten minutes…

Before he knew it, Gilbert was at the door, gun out and aimed. Arthur, Ludwig, and Kiku came in shortly after, all pointing their weapons at the door.

There was another fast rapping and a voice said, "Let us in."

"Ivan?" Arthur asked cautiously.

"Da," Ivan answered and the Briton opened the door.

"What the hell happened?" Gilbert asked, slipping his gun back into its holster at his side. "That was an awfully short trip for exploring the whole town."

"We found something that made us turn back." Alfred said as they all filed in.

"Then what the fuck was it?" Lovino asked, more frightened than demanding, coming over to stand with them all, Feliciano by his side.

"These," Wynston said, holding up a pair of orange jumpers. He dropped them on the floor and everyone stared at them, too shocked to say anything. "They're from Montana State. We found some more murdered people in some of the homes we looked into. The prisoners have been everythin' but passive."

"Mein Gott," Ludwig muttered.

"We can't stay here," Lovino said. "Those bastards will come for us and then we'll be the ones rotting in the basement."

Feliciano started to cry. "Why did you lie to me? That wasn't just an animal down there!"

"Be quiet, Lovino." Gilbert said. "You're making it worse."

Surprisingly, Lovino obeyed.

"But he is right," Francis said. "We have to move. This place is too dangerous…"

"Oh, and what?" Arthur flashed back. "Eke out a living in the woods like we've been doing for the past week and a half? We're all half dead, not to mention one of us might just _be_ dead if we try to move him."

"Yeah," Alfred agreed, thought he was hesitant. "Mattie can't walk and Gilbert is still recovering from whatever happened yesterday… it would be too risky."

"You mean we are just going to fucking stay here and let them get us?" Lovino asked, his voice high with fear. "Do you even know where they fucking went?"

"Lovino," Gilbert warned.

"They may be out there waiting for us." Ivan said. "But we must stay here if ever we are to recover. We have only found two jumpsuits so far. We outnumber them six to one."

"What are we going to do, then?" Feliciano asked, his voice small and quivering. "We can't let them get Sadiq, we can't!"

"And we won't, Feli." Ludwig said.

"We need weapons," Alfred said. "And more ammo… Kiku," He turned to the man expectantly. "Did you spot any guns while you were exploring the house?"

Kiku shook his head. "No, Alfred-san."

Alfred frowned. "Well… is there an attic?"

"Hai, I think there is, but I have not checked there." He had been too afraid to explore other parts of the house after discovering the basement.

"Right," Alfred said, straightening. "Okay, guys, this is what we're gonna do. We'll split up, half of us searching the house for weapons and the other half fortifying the windows and doors. We'll stockpile whatever we find on the kitchen table and go through them to check if they're usable or not. There has to be some sort of gun here. These people live out in the middle of the woods in Wyoming. No one in their right mind would ever think of _not_ owning one out here."

* * *

Alfred, Arthur, Kiku, Yao, and Lovino set off to scouring the house for weapons, while the rest (Ivan, Ludwig, Gilbert, and Wynston) ripped up floorboards and gathered wooden debris from around to the house to board up the windows and doors.

"There has to be _something_ ," Alfred said as he rifled through another old bin. They were all spread around the cramped and stifling attic, balancing on the beams and hunching over the insulation.

"Maybe the damn criminals got them all." Lovino said with frustration, tearing through yet another gun-empty bin.

"They're _criminals_ ," Alfred said. "They couldn't have gotten everything."

Arthur sighed as he moved on to another bin. "We may have guns, but that also means our enemies have just as many if not more." He shook his head. "Why didn't you listen to me, Alfred? This wouldn't have been so dangerous if you had gotten rid of that damned second amendment…"

Alfred stopped what he was doing and sat still. Everyone could sense the tension building and ceased their searching to watch. The American looked at Arthur with hard blue eyes.

Alfred slipped out his handgun and showed it to Arthur, as if explaining it to someone who had never seen anything like it before. It made Arthur bristle. "You see this, Artie?" he asked. "This is my gun, and I've always had it with me, wherever I've gone. You know why?"

"Because you are an asshole and people might shoot you?" Yao inquired.

"No—well, all right, maybe," Alfred huffed. "But I also have this gun because I can defend myself. Just in case anyone decides they want to take my freedoms away, I have this. After my revolution, I took precautions. Sure, I may seem 'gun-happy' to you, but no one really knows what that means except for Americans. I'll tell you: if my government goes down the shitter, which it most certainly has, what am I gonna do to try and bring it down? To try and make sure it can't control me? Well, hell, that would be kinda hard to do with a knife, seeing as I would be standing against the whole military arsenal. You see, Artie, this gun isn't just for defense, it's for upholding my rights, and if anyone tries to take those away from me, I know that I'll be able to face them with a weapon just as deadly as theirs. And that, Igs, is why we have guns here."

Arthur blinked, not knowing what to say. Feeling defeated, he returned to searching, his eyes downcast. Beside him, Alfred was still fuming, now moving aside the items in the bins more roughly than before.

"Alfred-san!" Kiku called from a far corner of the attic. He held up a long, shadowed object. "I found one."

Alfred stood, his anger long forgotten as he walked over and took the gun into his hands. "Whoa," he said. "This is a shotgun… in mint condition, too. I don't think it's ever been used…"

"Is there ammo in there?" Arthur asked.

"Hai," He scooped a couple of small boxes out of the bin, showing them to Alfred.

"Great! Some shots and slugs… how many more are in there?"

"About half of the bin, Alfred-san."

"Holy fuck," Alfred muttered, a smile on his face. "This is great!"

"They have hollow points as well." Lovino said, looking into the bin. "Damn, that's some heavy shit…"

"No, it's awesome." Alfred said. "450 million rounds of these were stockpiled by the government. Shoulda guessed why when I compared it to my 300 million citizens. They're gonna use those to kill us off, but now we can pay them back in full."

* * *

Ludwig ripped up another floorboard, the wood creaking and snapping in protest as he yanked it from the floor. His muscles strained, aching from being on the run, and sweat rolled down his face and chest.

He gave a triumphant grunt as the board gave up and allowed itself to be wrenched from the floor. Ludwig took a moment to catch his breath before throwing it over his shoulder and walking to where Ivan was gently hammering a nail into one of the boards on the door. Ludwig thanked God again that they found a hammer and some suitable nails stowed away in the family's garage.

Ivan looked at him as he approached, pausing in his work. "There is a small window in this door… I was thinking of punching out the glass and using it as a sort of gun slot."

"Ja," Ludwig said, setting down the board. "That sounds good."

Ivan nodded, and set down his hammer. He drew back his coat and took out his pickaxe, jabbing it through the glass. It shattered with a scream, shards spilling to the floor. Ludwig watched as Ivan hid the pickaxe in his voluminous coat, never feeling more glad that he wasn't on the Russian's bad side… or at least he thought he wasn't.

Ivan had picked up the hammer again and placed a few nails between his teeth, getting back to work with a knowing smile on his face.

He just loved how frightened people looked because of him.

Gilbert came huffing in, dropping a few boards at Ivan's feet. Ludwig gave him an incredulous look.

"East, I thought I told you to take care of Sadiq."

Gilbert groaned. "But that is so _unawesome_! Why waste my time with someone who won't even acknowledge my awesomeness? It's so boring!"

"Don't make me break your legs!"

Gilbert began to laugh. "Kesese, you wouldn't—!" But when he saw the serious look in Ludwig's eyes, he said, "A-all right, bruder, jeez. But I get restless when I'm not doing anything and everyone else is…"

"Go help Uncle Matt with his leg." Wynston said, dropping some more boards on the pile. "He says it's crampin' up again. Movin' it once every hour might work the joint back inta place."

"There is your job, Gilbert." Ivan said through his teeth that were holding the nails. "Do not complain, or I will give you something worth complaining about, da?"

Gilbert gladly disappeared back into the living room. All that could be heard was the tap of the hammer and the groaning of floorboards as they were worked from the floor, before Gilbert's voice reached them, "Oh mein Gott, mein Gott,"

Ludwig immediately set down the wood. He knew that tone of Gilbert's voice—complete shock. He rushed into the living room and his eyes went wide.

"Hey, everyone!" he called. "I think you need to come and see this."

It wasn't long before all of them were gathered around Sadiq's mattress, watching the Turk as he groaned and tossed his head before cracking open his eyes.

"W-what…?"

Feliciano's lower lip quivered and he burst into tears.

Lovino pulled his brother to him. "Damn crybaby," But he was extremely relieved as well.

"Mattie," Sadiq muttered, coughing a bit. "Where is he…? My ankle…"

"I'm here, Sadiq," Matthew said, fighting grateful tears down. He looked down at him and smiled from his place being supported by Alfred.

Sadiq tried to move his injured ankle, but he grimaced and suck in air through his teeth. "Ah, hurts…"

Arthur gave a great sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God." So he hadn't killed him.

Yao knelt down and dabbed Sadiq's head with a damp cloth, saying, "Be still. Your ankle is infected. You need to rest."

Sadiq blinked groggily at him. "Then… give me some fucking drugs already."

Ludwig gave him another dose of penicillin. "Here. Drink slowly."

Sadiq's hands shook as he took the pill and the water. After he swallowed the pill, he drank greedily until all the water was gone. He handed the glass back to Ludwig and licked his lips.

"My mouth is so dry… how long was I knocked out?"

"Since last night." Alfred replied. "About a day,"

"Damn, I'm hungry."

"I have some soup on. Shall we eat now?" Arthur didn't wait for an answer as he departed for the kitchen.

They all didn't know how hungry they had been until they started eating. Most of them hadn't had any food for a few days, and Arthur was prompted to put more soup on. Sadiq ate his meal voraciously.

"Not too fast, Sadiq," Matthew warned, though he was eating just as equally fast. "You're still recovering. You wouldn't want an upset stomach to go along with that, too."

Sadiq grunted but ignored him.

Kiku, meanwhile, was very grateful for the food. He had been throwing up so much lately that he'd barely had anything to go on, despite him hiding it from the others.

As the meal came to a close, Wynston volunteered to clean up and headed off to the kitchen. Arthur then felt safe to question Alfred about his condition.

"Are you doing all right?"

Alfred blinked in surprise. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Well, there was that little stunt of yours with the fire… then you got punched in the stomach pretty bad by the Bloodhound guy…"

Alfred scoffed. "Yeah, whatever. That shit tickled compared to…" His eyes went downcast and his hand once again went to his arm. Arthur frowned. He had caught Alfred making the same movement throughout the day at random moments, but he seemed relieved afterward.

"It's your scar, right?" Arthur said.

Alfred looked shocked. "How did you…?"

"Unlike you, I'm perceptive." Arthur explained. "I managed to deduce that when you lose one of your states, its similar to losing one of your leaders. You get a scar."

Alfred was silent for a moment, the laughed in a somber sort of way that concerned Arthur. "Yeah, well, I just hope that Florida doesn't kick the bucket any time soon…"

"And why is that?" Ivan asked. He knew the answer if all the rumors held true.

Alfred blushed and scratched the back of his head. "Let's just say he occupies a very… _vital_ area."

They all burst out laughing, even though the joke was morbid. But it was release from stress, hunger, and tension that they all needed desperately.

Then it became just as serious again.

Alfred had been brooding over the past day and a half, and he needed some answers. "Artie, when those two men took you into the back of the bunker…"

Arthur could see where this was going. All eyes were pinned on him. The Briton shook his head. "No, they didn't hurt me. In fact, I'd say I hurt them more than they ever intended to hurt me."

Francis raised and eyebrow. "And what is that supposed to mean, cher?"

"It means I killed them." Arthur said nonchalantly, though inside he felt sick. Being a country, he had been responsible for millions of deaths, but doing it with his own two hands… that was a different story.

"And then you escaped outside." Ivan said, breaking the palpable shock in the room.

"Yes," Arthur was now very aware that they were all staring at him in disbelief. "It had to be done. There was no other way." And even though he felt sick, Arthur also felt… _satisfied_ about what he had done. Those men deserved it. They were going to rape him. Hell, if anything, he should have found a more violent way to kill them. Anyway, doing it had saved everyone. His guilt lessened with that thought.

Yao cleared his throat. "We should get some sleep."

"Right," Alfred said. "I'll keep watch."

Arthur stood. "Alfred, I don't think you should be getting less sl—"

"I'll get some sleep, don't worry." Alfred replied.

Arthur was skeptical; Alfred, he'd noticed, had become so paranoid lately that he was alert constantly. If anything, the American would surely be up all night.

Arthur leaned over to Kiku and whispered, "Make sure he goes to sleep, okay?"

Kiku nodded and everyone settled down to sleep.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Oooh, I praised guns. I'm bad. Really baaad. Whatever. But I'm not kidding about those 450 million rounds of hollowpoints that the government is stockpiling. That's one or two bullets for every American citizen. I'm not crying wolf or anything, but with all the scumbags dominating the upper branches I wouldn't put it past them to start anything. You know, _after_ they fuck every woman who works for them. That first.

Annnnnywho, chaos begins next chapter. :D


	43. Gathering Storm

**Look out, y'all. Here comes the crazy.  
**

Warning: A scary scene, fight scene, weapons, threats, poking fun at France, angst (and ignore the fact that I only wrote Scotland with an accent. I was too lazy to do Northern Ireland and Wales, meh. That and I've already written Scotland with an accent earlier in this fic and gotta keep him the same).

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Gathering Storm**

_Arthur stood in complete blackness, squinting around for some sort of light. "Hello? Hello!"_

_"Arthur,"_

_The Briton blinked and turned around. "Oh… oh my God." Tears flooded his eyes. He had never been happier to see them in his entire life despite all the resentment held between them. "Ian, Bryce, Lennox…"_

_"It's good ta see ya, Artie." Lennox said, smiling as he held out his arms. "C'mere, little brother."_

_Arthur ran to them and hugged them all. "I…. I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I couldn't save you, I—" He broke off into sobs._

_"It's all righ'," Ian said. His hair was just as red as when he was alive. A few more tears slipped down Arthur's face._

_"We're okay," Bryce assured, patting Arthur's shoulder. "Really."_

_"We miss ya." Lennox murmured, ruffling Arthur's hair—a gesture that used to annoy the hell out of Arthur, but now comforted him greatly. "Yer doin' a good job, keepin' yer head."_

_"Th-thank you," Arthur sniffed and hugged Lennox around the middle. Oh God. He smelled like cigarettes. Just like those horrid cigarettes that he used to smoke. Arthur sobbed a little._

_"Bu'," Lennox said, his voice dropping an octave. Arthur sniffed again, but opened his eyes when he felt liquid trickle onto his sleeve. Some dropped onto his nose. It was red._

_Arthur let go of Lennox and backed away. "No,"_

_All three of them were covered in blood, dripping down their bodies and pooling on the black, ethreal floor. Arthur stared in horror._

_"It wasn't enough," Bryce said, glaring._

_"You've never been good enough." Ian growled. "You failed."_

_"Ya killed us, Arthur." Lennox spat. His gaze was malicious as blood covered his face. Just like when Arthur had saw him shot. "And before long, you'll lose everyone ya love."_

_"No," Arthur shook his head and backed away. The blood from them was pooling rapidly, spreading to his shoes._

_"Yes," Ian said. "An' it's all your fault. All of it."_

_"You will never be able to save anyone." Bryce added spitefully._

_"You're a failure, Artie," Lennox snarled. "They'll all bleed before the end—because of you."_

_"N-no," Arthur felt warm liquid run over his hands and he looked down at them. They were covered in blood. "No!" He tried to step back from the blood pooling at his feet and slipped, going down on his back. He went to get up, but the blood clung to him, little red hands trailing up his arms, his shoulders, his face, until he was covered in it. Covered in the blood that he'd spilled from his failures._

_"I won't! I won't!" Arthur shouted, writhing. "I won't let them die!" And then he was swallowed up by the blood, slipping down into the floor, falling through blackness, through nothing…_

_"Pay!" came a booming voice that seemed to claw at his very skull. Arthur yelped and covered his ears. "Pay for your sins! Pay in the blood of those you love!"_

_And then a fiery maw opened below him, fangs dripping blood, black forked tongue darting out to meet him. Arthur screamed as he fell into the open jaws._

_"Die in a pool of your sins!"_

_"NO!"_

"Artie! Artie!" Alfred shouted, shaking Arthur awake. "Arthur!"

Arthur's eyes snapped open, the pupils dialated. He blinked up at Alfred, who was staring worriedly down at him. "A-Alfred?"

"Artie," Alfred muttered, looking around. Good, everyone was still asleep. "What the fuck was that?"

Arthur shook his head, trying to get his breathing and rapidly-beating heart under control. "I… it was a nightmare. Just a nightmare…" _A horrible, bloody nightmare…_ He was still shaking and was soaked with sweat.

"Christ," Alfred said with relief. "By the way you were thrashing, I thought you were seizing or something…"

"Oh God," Arthur wiped his sweaty forehead with his sleeve. He could care less about the filth on his clothing. "That was quite an intense one."

"I could tell." Alfred said. "Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'll be fine." Arthur replied, though he wasn't convinced himself. The nightmare had shaken him to his core. "How much sleep have you had?"

Alfred sighed. "Well, Kik just relieved me, though he said he had to take a piss so he'll be back. I was just settling down when you started talking in your sleep."

Arthur stiffened. "What did I say?"

"'Lennox'," Alfred said. "'Ian', 'Bryce'… your brothers. Then 'no' and 'I won't.'" He paused, thinking, then asked, "What were you dreaming about, Artie?"

Arthur shook his head and rolled over, though he wanted nothing more than to take Alfred in his arms and hold him. "My brothers… it's nothing. A nightmare. About their deaths. That's all."

Alfred scoffed. "'That's all'? Such a liar. If I dreamed about you or Mattie dying, I wouldn't say it was just nothing."

Arthur glanced back at him. "Alfred, that's not what I meant. I'm just… I'm tired, and I'm stressed, and… it hurts to think about."

Alfred felt like an ass. "Artie, I—"

"It's okay, Alfred." Arthur muttered and turned over. "I just want to sleep."

Alfred sat there for a moment, guilt clenching his stomach. He didn't know what else to say, so he rubbed Arthur's shoulder and crawled back over to Ivan's sleeping bag. He wished he could move it so that he could be closer to Arthur. It was very rare that the Briton was ever this shaken.

Arthur took a deep breath and tried to expel his nightmare from his mind. But the reality was too stark, the possibilities too real—

The Uprising wasn't even halfway over. And many more would die before the end.

But Arthur refused to let the blood spill for his faults.

* * *

Francis lay there, staring at Arthur's back, wondering if the Briton was all right.

Last night, he had heard Arthur kicking and mumbling in his sleep—crying. But he had decided to feign sleep so as to not wound Arthur's pride.

He wanted to crawl over to Arthur, to slip into his sleeping bag with him, and hold him, tell him it was okay, that they were going to make it.

But he didn't know if everyone was going to make it.

His eyes floated over to Feliciano, sleeping peacefully by his brother, his face content and innocent. Would he be next? Or his brother, Lovino? Or maybe his own little Matthew?

It could be anyone.

The fact that none of them knew when or if they were going was getting to Francis. Ever since he and Arthur had made a connection, ever since Matthew had injured himself… the paranoia was wreaking havoc on his mind every hour of every day. He didn't think he could stand to see Arthur or Matthew die, or anyone else for that matter. But if it were Arthur or Matthew, he would break down, and there would be nothing that would help him.

And Arthur. Francis loved him dearly. _Why couldn't he have seen that earlier?_ They could have had so much time together before the Uprising. And now he feared that he would end up like poor Lovino—his lover shot dead right after they had gotten together. It was a scary thought.

 _I love you so much, Arthur_. Francis mused as he studied Arthur's side, rising and falling with each soft breath. _When will you realize that?_

He decided to get up. Laying and brooding over death was depressing him.

Francis got up and stepped over his sleeping comrades, deciding that some fresh air would do him good. He went to the back door (seeing as the front was boarded up) and unlocked it. He walked down the stairs outside and reached into his back pocket, pulling out a crinkled pack of cigarettes. There was only one left.

"Might as well smoke it." he muttered and slipped a lighter out of his pocket.

He lit up and took a pull, feeling himself relax already. He blew out through his nose and coughed a bit.

Okay. Too early in the morning for that.

He stiffened when he heard movement around the side of the house. He dropped his cigarette regretfully and snuffed it out in the dirt with his shoe. He went for the gun at his side, when he realized that he had left it back in the house.

Then Kiku rushed at him from around the corner, katana out and ready. He arrived in front of Francis, panting.

"Get back inside." Kiku said firmly, but Francis didn't move.

"I said get back inside!"

"Non," Francis muttered, slipping out a pocketknife. Thank God he still had the sense to have that on him. "I'm not leaving you. What's wrong?"

"Them," Kiku said, pointing at the group of five convicts who were now surrounding them. They were all well armed; shotguns, pistols, knives. One man even had an axe.

"They ambushed me." Kiku explained, cursing himself. This had been the second time on his watch that he had been caught off guard. Well, this time he had enough time to run before they could catch him. He was hoping to lead them into the woods behind the house and lose them, but Francis had spoiled his plan by showing up inconveniently.

"That's okay, ami." Francis said. "Now they have two to deal with."

"Hai," Kiku, though, didn't exactly feel safe with Francis as his partner. Considering his history in battle…

Still, he was better than nothing.

"What are you hiding in that house?" one convict asked, gun aimed at Kiku. "You have the front door all boarded up. You must have something valuable."

"Nothing," Kiku replied coolly. "Just us. We were looking for a safehouse."

Another convict laughed. "Yeah, well, some safehouse that was. The previous owners thought that too, but look where that got them. Did you see them?"

"Heartless bastards," Francis growled, brandishing his knife, though he felt foolish doing so in front of all of the better weapons aimed dangerously at him.

The convict with the axe shrugged. "When shit hits the fan, it's survival of the fittest. We just thought to put 'em out of their misery."

Kiku needed to wake the others. He knew he was drastically outmatched with just his katana and Francis. Thinking fast, he reached inconspicuously into his pocket. One of the men noticed just as he threw the shuriken, launching it across the space between them with deadly accuracy. But the man who noticed was prepared. He aimed his gun and shot twice. He hit the whirling blade on the second shot, and the echoing of the gunshot and the bullet hitting the metal reverberated throughout the area.

The man with the shotgun scowled when he realized what Kiku had done. "Kill them."

Bullets flew and Kiku had no problem deflecting them… but Francis had only a little blade. All the Frenchman could do was dodge, and he would not last long. Francis yelped as a bullet whizzed by his head, so close that it took some of his hair.

"Get behind me!" Kiku yelled, but just as he did, a bullet tore through the screen door and implanted itself in one of the convict's foreheads. They all stopped for a moment to watch him stagger and fall, bleeding, to the ground.

Ludwig threw open the door, handgun aimed, followed by Alfred, Arthur, Ivan, and Yao. Now the criminals were outnumbered.

Alfred scoffed as he cocked his shotgun. "Shoulda known."

But the convicts weren't fazed by the new arrivals. They were obviously experienced in this kind of situation, as they came at the nations like swooping hawks to prey. Ivan broke the jaw of one inmate with his pipe, while Yao finished him off with a blow to the back of the head, courtesy of his wok. They were all so distracted with defense, that none of them saw one of the convicts had snuck up behind them.

A convict rushed Francis, but the Frenchman dodged his axe by inches, ducking to plunge his pocketknife into his gut. The man stared at him in shock as he coughed up blood and fell to the ground. Reveling in his victory (which didn't come often enough with him), Francis didn't hear the footsteps behind him until it was too late.

The man grabbed him by his hair and tugged. Francis's head snapped backward, and he shouted only for the barrel of a gun to be pressed to his head. The fighting slowed to a halt.

"We came here to take what we need." the convict holding Francis hostage growled. "But it's obvious that you're not gonna come easy. So, we'll just take something for ransom." He tugged on Francis's hair again, and the Frenchman grunted. "Now, unless you want this pussy to die, I suggest you lower your weapons."

Reluctantly, they did.

The other remaining convict joined his comrade. "Great work, Jamal."

Jamal scoffed. "Simple tactics. I learned them in the Marines."

"What do you want for him?" Alfred asked. He didn't negotiate with terrorists (that was his policy), but Francis was kind of more important than the average human hostage. "Food? Weapons? Ammo? What?"

Jamal laughed. "Nah, none of those. We got plenty of them. But you see, this is _our_ territory. Home to the Wolf Pack. And you know what wolves do to trespassers, right?" He slid a thumb across Francis's neck in a slicing motion. "Dead. Meat. I'll tell you now that we work with the Organization, but we ain't part of it. Nah, we just _profit_ from it. You see, if we turn in potential rebels to them, we get all the stuff that we need. That being said, we hunt. And the rest of you had better be wary, 'cause you're next on our list. We'll take this one for now, but tomorrow, we're returning triple the force. We're gonna take you down and turn you in. Sound good?"

"And what makes you think we'll come quietly?" Arthur spat, furious.

Jamal pressed the gun harder into Francis's temple. "If you want him to live, you'll be just peachy for us."

Francis thought he saw a flicker of fear pass behind Arthur's eyes, but it was only for a moment. The nations were quiet. They didn't know what to say.

Francis felt his heart pounding. They were going to take him away. These thugs. And the others couldn't help him.

Jamal began to walk backwards to the woods, the other convict pointing his gun at Francis as well. "Well, I guess we'll see ya around."

A minute later, the convicts had disappeared into the woods and Francis with them.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Oh noes! France has been taken captive! (Now, where have I seen that before, hmmm? XD) No, seriously. Shit's about to go down. Way, way down. Down to hell. You'll find out what I'm talking about as you go along, in the mean time just pay attention to the details!

And I know most of you probably just skipped over my commentary because you wanted to see what happened to France. Well cool your tits, bros, the next chappie's not going anywhere, got it?


	44. Take

**Read the warning. Seriously, guys, I don't wanna be flamed if you forgo it and take a trip unknowingly into twisted town.  
**

Warning: Angst, threats, tension, insults surrounding France and the French, various innuendos, references to necrophilia, and rape. I think you know where I'm going with this.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Take**

Matthew was crying and he couldn't stop. Alfred was hugging him and murmuring that it would be all right. But the Canadian knew it wouldn't.

His papa was gone.

"Shh, Mattie," Alfred said softly. "It's okay…"

Matthew shoved his brother away from him. "No, it's not!" he shouted, half sobbing. "How can you say that when Francis is being held hostage?"

Alfred blinked at him and sighed. "Mattie… I know it's bad, but crying over it is not going to solve anything."

Matthew was so distraught at losing Francis and so angry at Alfred for not understanding his fear, that he didn't bother to check his words before they flew out of his mouth. "Who are you to criticize me over crying when you did the same when Marge died?!"

Alfred's eyes went round and a little wet before Matthew realized what he'd said. "Al… Al, I'm sorry. I didn't mean—"

"No," Alfred muttered. "I know what you mean. I shouldn't have said that." He picked at a loose fiber on the cushion of the couch they were both sitting on.

Matthew wanted to say more, but Gilbert asked, "What are we going to do about this?"

"Wait here, dumbass," Lovino replied. "Didn't you hear that fucker say if we try anything they'll kill the wine bastard?"

Matthew glared. "I bet you would be pissed too if we called Antonio a bastard."

Lovino gave him an equally powerful glare but muttered, "Only I can call the stupid tomato a bastard…" His eyes glazed over and he was quiet.

"We can't let Francis die." Feliciano said, tearing up. "We'll be sad. And I don't like being sad…"

"We're not going to let them kill him, Feli." Ludwig assured, but the Italian sniffled.

"We need to do _something_." Yao urged.

"Hai," Kiku agreed. He felt extremely guilty for this. Maybe if he hadn't led the convicts to the back of the house… "They are still criminals. They cannot be trusted no matter what they say. Francis may be dead whether we follow their instructions or not."

Ivan looked over at Arthur, who was staring blankly at the opposite wall. "Arthur, you have been quiet. What is your say in all of this?"

Arthur blinked as if emerging from a reverie. "Eh? Oh, yes, the frog… we should plan on saving him, even though he is annoying."

"And how do we do that?" Sadiq asked. "I can't move yet and neither can Matthew. Gilbert is still too weak to fight—"

"I can fight!" Gilbert protested, but Ludwig hissed at him to shut up.

"And we also don't have Francis. Counting out the two Italies, that leaves us with seven able-bodied men. And who knows how many more convicts are hiding out?"

"Where _are_ they hidin'?" Wynston asked. "Can't be no rinky-dink little shack. It has ta be a big place where they can house prisoners an' weapons… a fortress, like."

"We'll have to scout." Alfred said, standing up from the couch. He checked over his ammo and looked at everyone else. "I'm loaded. Who's coming with?"

"You know I am." Ivan said, slipping his pipe out of his coat.

Everyone flinched at the sight of it.

"I can't let you get into trouble." Arthur said. "I'll be coming as well."

"I'll stay here to guard the place." Ludwig said. "But I need a partner."

"I will join you." Yao volunteered, then flashed a stern glance in Kiku's direction. "Stay safe and give them hell."

Kiku nodded, knowing Yao knew full well Kiku's responsibility over the whole situation. "Of course, aniki."

Yao blinked in shock, but before he could say anything, Kiku turned around and led the group toward the back door. The screen was sheared in two by Ludwig's bullet. They were just about to file out, when Matthew yelled, "Al!"

Alfred turned around to see Matthew stretching his arms out to him. "Al,"

Alfred smiled softly and went over to him, embracing him again. Matthew's voice was raspy with tears. "I don't want to lose you, Alfred. Kill those bastards and bring Francis back, okay? I don't want to see you in pieces." He cried a little at the thought of it.

"Don't worry, Mattie." Alfred soothed, ruffling his brother's hair. It was always so soft, no matter if it was dirty or not. The feel of it comforted him, reminded him of when they slept together as children (mostly because of Alfred's nightmares, but Matthew liked the company no matter how much he complained about Alfred squirming and talking in his sleep). "I'll bring back Francis. That's a promise."

Matthew sniffed and looked up at him. Oh God, how he wished he could go as well. He would feel so much better if he could keep Alfred in sight. "Can you promise me that you won't die?"

"No," Alfred said. "But I'll fight like all hell to make sure I don't."

Matthew laughed a bit and wiped at his eyes. "You're such an idiot when you're dramatic."

"Whatever makes you feel better, bro." He kissed Matthew's brow and walked back over to join the group.

No one spoke as he headed outside.

"It's about to rain." Kiku observed, peering up at the slate-gray sky. A dark mass of thunderheads was rolling in from the south.

"That doesn't look good." Arthur muttered. "If I were still a captain, I would say it was time for us to make port."

"Well, we don't have time for that." Alfred said, cocking his shotgun. "We've been hanging around here for too long. We should have known we'd run into trouble. Every goddamn town, man…"

"Dad?" Wynston stepped outside. "I wanna come, too."

"No, son." Alfred said sternly. "Back inside. I don't want you anywhere near those men. We should never have come here."

"But, Dad, I—"

_"No,"_ And that was all it took to send Wynston back inside, the state slamming the frame of the screen door behind him along with the solid wooden door behind it. They waited until they heard the lock click.

"I hope the frog is as resilient as he was fighting me." Arthur muttered.

"There is no time for hoping." Ivan stated. "Let us be off."

* * *

Francis yelped as his hair was pulled again, shivering as his clothes were soaked through and through with the pouring rain.

"Pick up the slack." the other convict Francis had come to hatefully know as Pete said, giving him a harsh shove. Francis stumbled and grunted as he just barely caught himself, shoes slipping in the gathering puddles.

They had been walking through town for hours, going seemingly nowhere, all the while with the rain pounding down on their backs. But the two convicts didn't seem to mind; actually, they appeared to enjoy pushing Francis around. Already, the Frenchman had fallen twice into the mud or asphalt and they had laughed, yanking him up again and shoving him forward.

"So, you're French?" Jamal had asked him, smiling wickedly. "Didn't even need to ask with that faggish hair and chicken-shit behavior. They grow 'em pussies over there." And he had spat a big glob of phlegm right on Francis's shoe.

Pete had guffawed and Francis had fumed. If it wasn't for the two men's guns he would show them just how much of a 'pussy' he was.

People really underestimated him at times.

And finally, when Francis had gotten a chill, they reached a school. It was small, but outdated; the bricks were faded with age and some of the shingles had chipped off.

They pushed him forward and he nearly ran smack into the glass front doors.

"In," Pete ordered simply, and Francis fumbled with the lock in his wet hands before pulling the door open and stepping inside.

At least he was out of the rain. But that was all Francis found good about this situation. Pete and Jamal entered behind him.

Francis stiffened as footsteps echoed off the walls and a man appeared around the corner. He smiled at them—with teeth as brown and chipped as any Francis had ever seen in the modern age of hygiene. "Back so soon, eh? Any loot…?" He quieted as he spotted Francis, standing cold and dripping before him.

His smile turned sinister. "Oh, another slut?"

Pete laughed and patted Francis roughly on the back. "Ha! No, just a French fag. But he'll work just as well."

"French, eh?" The man narrowed his eyes. "I don't like them Frenchies. Pretentious as hell."

"You don't hafta like 'im." Pete said. "Just his ass."

The man's eyes flashed. "Even better,"

Francis stiffened and Jamal huffed. "Just be careful with this one, Harley. You tore that woman up. And I'm not looking forward to being without a fuck."

Harley snorted. "It wasn't just me. Sure, I ride 'em often, but your big dick was the sole contributor."

Jamal chuckled. "Yeah, well, now she's loose. And since all the other broads have scattered, fag ass will hafta do." He tugged at Francis's hair again and made the Frenchman look at him. "You clean, pussy boy?"

Francis glared. "No," He was lying, of course. He always took good care of himself. But these men didn't need to know that.

Jamal smiled wickedly. "Liar. I know one when I see one. Twenty years a drug dealin' does that to ya. Now tell me," He pulled so that Francis was crying out in pain, feeling some of his hair rip out by the roots. "Are you clean?"

"N-no, I am not." Francis said defiantly, and Jamal frowned. He growled as he let go of Francis's hair, pushing him onto the floor. Francis slipped and fell, barely catching himself. His chin bounced off the linoleum.

Francis rolled onto his side, and Jamal's shoe pressed into his neck. He glowered down at him. "Enough a your lies. Tell me the truth or I'll kill ya."

Francis grunted at the feel of Jamal's grit-covered shoe applying pressure to his windpipe and looked him directly in the eyes. "I. Said. No." he enunciated.

Jamal's shoe was beginning to cut off Francis's airway. "Don't think I'll uphold my promise to your pals just 'cause I said so. They're all huddled up in that 'safehouse' a yours. Just waiting to be seized and sent to the Organization. And if they're ballsy enough to come and getcha, well," He laughed. "All they'll find is your corpse. So… your answer, faggot?"

Francis was scared out of his mind, but he did not let that show. "I already gave it."

This time, Jamal didn't say a word. He just pressed his shoe down on Francis's throat, on his Adam's apple. Francis gasped, cold overcoming his limbs, his head throbbing with lack of air, and his throat pulsing frantically, as if his heart knew its work would soon be over and was determined to deal out a lifetime's worth of beats in a few moments. Francis's vision flickered, and he wanted it to be over. The running, the worrying, the hurt. It was all going to be gone. He could already feel the pain lessening…

And then he remembered Matthew. He remembered Lovino, and Feliciano, and Kiku, and Alfred. And he remembered Arthur.

He couldn't leave them.

So, gathering up whatever breath was left in his lungs, Francis gasped, "Y-yes,"

Jamal stopped, his shoe letting up a little. "What was that, pussy boy? Had enough?"

Francis glared up at him as much as his dizziness allowed and took a deep, sweet breath. "Yes… I am clean." And humiliation flooded him along with dread.

Defeated. Again. He was so useless. How could he ever have thought he could be anything more?

Jamal and Pete helped him stand, and Francis felt all the blood rush down from his head. He swayed, feeling faint, but the convicts caught him.

"Ready for some cock, pussy boy?" Pete muttered. "But I bet you French like that."

They handcuffed him and took him deeper into the school. The rest of the group—five other men—were all gathered in the cafeteria. They all looked up as they entered.

"Look at what we found!" Harley shouted in excitement, pulling Francis's head up by his hair so the others could see his face. "Another piece of ass!"

Some of the men cheered, but the others groaned. One, who was sharpening a knife, grumbled, "A fag? Hell no, man. I'm a pussy man. I don't swing that way."

Francis felt relieved. At least one man was out, maybe the rest would follow.

Harley snorted. "I'll take any that I can. Any tight hole'll be good enough for me. 'Sides, he looks like a girl from behind."

"And who says you can only use his ass?" Pete said, smiling wickedly as he looked at Francis. "I bet the French love sucking cock, huh? Taught from a young age, I expect."

"How's our other little slave doing?" Jamal asked, leading Francis over to a corner of the room and stopping before a woman, her back to them, nude and scarred, lying on the floor. A metal collar was wrapped around her neck, angry red marks from it standing out on her pale neck. A rusty chain led from it to a hook hammered into the floor.

Francis felt his heart jump into his throat. He didn't see her moving. At all.

"The bitch is dead." the one sharpening his knife growled angrily. "Got all we could outta her, though. Ricky took her after she died—said she was still tight, but I ain't goin' that far. Still, at least she don't bitch and scream no more."

_Oh my God._ Francis thought with horror. _They're going to kill me. I'm going to die here, with that thing wrapped around my neck. And then after I'm gone, they'll… they…_

Francis was grateful when Pete brought him out of the dark thought. He pushed him to his knees and Francis was leaning over the dead woman. He closed his eyes, not wanting to see. It might be what he would look like soon.

"That's a good pussy boy." Pete crooned. Francis felt disgusted as the man stroked his hair. "Now we'll have to put this collar on you so you know you belong to us."

Jamal scoffed, standing over them with his arms folded. "Stop creepin', Pete. The fag'll whine more."

Pete glared, but shut up and finished fastening the collar. Francis's throat convulsed; this collar had been around a dead woman's neck.

His clothes were cut or stripped away. Francis tried to keep composed, looking down at the floor, ignoring all the dirty jibes coming from across the room.

So, this was the price he had to pay to keep Matthew and Arthur safe?

… Then he would gladly pay it a million times over.

He was ordered onto his hands and knees, and Francis complied without a sound. He was ordered to spread his legs. He did so.

"Look at that, boys," Jamal laughed. "A nice little fag cunt. All for you. Who's first?"

"Me," Harley said and walked over to Francis. The Frenchman could hear the man unbuckling his belt and his heart began to pound. The man chuckled and pressed on the back of Francis's head so that his face was pushed uncomfortably against the filthy linoleum floor—inches away from the dead woman.

"Ha, I ain't ever done it with a man before." he said in a low voice. Francis squinted his eyes closed and clenched his fists as he felt greasy hands pull his cheeks apart and a heated cock brush against his thigh. "But I guess you don't count as a man, do ya?"

Francis buried his head in his arms. He didn't want the others to see his tears. It would hurt. It would scar him in many more ways than just physically. And the only thought that comforted him was that Matthew was safe and Arthur was as well.

The man thrust into him and Francis withdrew into himself, to a better place.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Well, there it is, folks. Someone had to take the short end of the stick when it comes to the sick-ass men working with the Organization and I just happened to choose France. Why? Think about it. To him sex equals love. His sexual view will be permanently warped by this, I can tell you that. I know, I'm cruel, but more issues means more drama and I need to feed the beast that is this fic and all it will eat is twisted fucking drama. O_O

At this point I think this fic has possessed me. I am totally pulling the plot out of my ass, y'all. So if things seem random, just know that they most likely _are_. But I like spontaneity. Makes writing fun~ The most important thing, though, is that I know how this will all end-and not all of our nations will make it.

Anywho, what will happen to France? Will they find him in time? Will the criminals kill him? I'm using my announcer voice again, but fuck it, you guys are probably gonna be paranoid anyway even without it, hehe.

Btw, I know this is long commentary, but all this drama made me wanna write a really cracky fic. Like, all crack. And smut. So I did. Tomorrow I will be posting a one-shot: **No, Just No.** Until then, keep a lookout! :D


	45. As the Sky Weeps

**Augh, splitting up! Haven't they ever learned?  
**

Warning: Angst, threats, graphic description of violence.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**As the Sky Weeps**

The rain was coming down in sheets. But Ivan could not feel the cold, although the water was beginning to weigh down his coat.

He and Arthur were wandering down a narrow street, looking around for anything that may be a clue as to where the criminals were hiding. They were also trying to hide themselves, but the rain did most of that for them.

Arthur was shivering. It was fall, Ivan speculated, from how cool the days were growing. Before long, winter would be upon them, and they were in the north, where snow would pile up in feet. Not a problem for him, but for the others… they had to leave very soon. But they had to find Francis. Despite Ivan's dislike of the Frenchman (thank Napoleon for that, and Ivan was always one to hold a grudge), Francis was still Ivan's comrade, and they were a team now. That and if Francis were to die, Matthew would be sad. And when Matthew was sad, Alfred was sad.

It all worked out in his mind.

Arthur turned to him. "This street's clear. I don't think any of the shops would be an ideal place to hide. They're all broken into." He spoke loud enough to be heard over the rain, but not loud enough for anyone more than a few paces away to hear.

"Da," Ivan replied, taking one last look around. "Let us join up with Alfred and Kiku."

They had all previously agreed on a meeting point: a fountain in the center of town. It was an obvious landmark, sure to attract the criminals they were looking for, but they had no choice. With the rain falling down as hard as it was, the fountain was one of the only things they could all see at a distance.

They arrived and awaited the return of Alfred and Kiku. Ten minutes passed, and there was still no sign of them. Arthur had stopped shivering. He was too anxious about Alfred's absence to worry about the cold.

"I should have been the one to go with him, the bloody git." Arthur muttered, but Ivan's superior hearing picked up the words through the drumming rain. They had since taken up shelter beneath a store canopy to stay out of the rain. Ivan understood his worry. He was beginning to worry about them as well, especially Alfred. But Ivan knew Kiku, and the man would never let Alfred get into trouble.

Arthur wrung his hands again; Ivan wasn't sure the Briton even knew if he was doing it. Arthur just stared out through the rain, eyes fixed on the fountain, his gaze occasionally darting around to examine the streets that led to it for any sign of the others.

Another five minutes passed before Arthur stood and said, "Look,"

Ivan did, and saw two figures manifesting through the mists of rain. It was Kiku and Alfred, and they walked over to the fountain, looking around when they found that Ivan and Arthur were not there.

Arthur ran out to them and waved his arms until they spotted him. Alfred and Kiku met up with him, and they all rushed beneath the canopy.

"Anything?" Arthur asked hopefully.

Alfred was soaked, though Nantucket still stood defiant on his head. He had since taken off his glasses. "Nothing. All the stores were too wrecked to look occupied."

"Hai," Kiku replied. He looked smaller when he was wet. "None were fortified."

Arthur swore and scratched the back of his head, unsure of what to do. He lifted his eyes and studied the storm. It hadn't let up in the least. "The rain will last through the night, it looks like."

"We will stay here, then." Ivan said, motioning toward the store door. The glass was smashed in, and it didn't look very secure, but it would do to get them out of the rain. "We will continue our search in the morning."

"What about the others?" Alfred asked, concerned about Matthew. Losing two brothers in the span of a few hours would take its toll on the Canadian. "What'll they think when we don't return?"

"We'll have to take that risk." Arthur replied with a heavy sigh. "Catching a cold wouldn't be one of the best things to have in this situation."

"And Francis-san?" Kiku asked. "What will happen to him?"

They were all silent for a moment before Arthur said, "He's stubborn. He'll be all right 'til morning." But Arthur wasn't altogether sure of that claim. Those men were criminals, after all. Who knew what might conspire during the night?

In all honesty, Arthur was scared for Francis. And he couldn't believe that he was praying for Francis's well-being.

They all went inside, stepping carefully over the glass scattered beneath the door frame.

It was a pharmacy, with a desk, a waiting room, and shelves of medicines and various other amenities. They all decided that it would be best to stay as much out of sight as possible, so they jumped the counter, gaining access to the various files and drugs, bypassing them to sit in a little corner walled off by file cabinets.

They were all bitterly cold, except for Ivan, though Kiku hid it better than Arthur and Alfred, who were both huddling close together to keep off the shivers. Kiku, who was admittedly claustrophobic, made sure that he had a corner all to himself, well away from everyone else. He pulled his knees up to his front, arms wrapped around his shins.

Ivan, meanwhile, leaned against a cabinet and stared at the opposite wall, thinking about nothing. To him, the situation was so surreal—having lost one of their group members and being separated all within a few short hours—that he felt almost like he was somewhere else.

And he vaguely wondered… was Francis feeling the same thing?

* * *

Matthew lifted his head as Ludwig walked in from the back door. "Are they back?"

"Nein," Ludwig said, putting his gun on safety. "No sign of them. Yao's looking out now, maybe he'll spot something."

It was getting dark, and Matthew's fingers picked at the cushion he was sitting on. He had already torn a considerable slit in it from his anxiety. Sadiq was watching him with something akin to worry, having managed to sit up on his own on the mattress. Feliciano had been strangely quiet, chipping at the scuffed wooden floor with his nail. Gilbert was annoyingly pacing the room—had been ever since the others left. He would mumble under his breath to himself, as if arguing theories of what could have possibly happened to them or Francis, every once in a while stopping abruptly, sighing loudly, and shaking his head, then continuing on with his pacing again. It was driving Lovino mad.

"Would you stop walking around and fucking sit down already, bastard?" he growled, bad-tempered. Everyone was already tense, and Gilbert's pacing wasn't helping.

Gilbert flashed him a glare. "I can do whatever the fuck I want."

Ludwig huffed. "Now don't start fighting. We don't need the anxiety right now."

Gilbert rounded on him. "You lose a friend and then you tell me not to be anxious!"

And that just plain pissed Lovino the hell off. He stood, glaring. Feliciano tugged at his pant leg. "Lovi, don't—"

"I'm going to put this bastard in his fucking place, Feli." Lovino growled, then to Gilbert, he snapped, "Stop acting so fucking melodramatic. We don't know if the wine bastard is dead or not."

Gilbert's eyes flashed. "Ja? I'd rather he be dead than being tortured by those criminals! And who are you to butt in, huh? All you've done is bitch and whine for this whole trip. You've been melodramatic every fucking day. Who are you to tell me not to be melodramatic now that my friend may be dead?"

Lovino felt like punching the bastard in the gut. He fucking deserved it. But instead, he yelled, "Because you don't know what real grief is like!" _What am I saying?_ Lovino mused, but the words were already out of his mouth before he could stop them. "You haven't seen someone close to you shot before your eyes, haven't seen their fucking blood pour out of them! You haven't seen that dead look in their eyes, how their muscles spasm just before they die, hear that gurgling noise in their throats! You haven't seen their fucking brains blown out and smeared on the ground! You haven't seen the killers laugh like it was some sort of fucking sick joke! You don't fucking know anything, goddammit!" Lovino was so lost in his rage, he didn't realize that tears were pouring down his face, hot and angry. He didn't feel embarrassed—more frustrated. Gilbert didn't know, he didn't even have the right…

 _Antonio_ , Lovino thought forlornly, and more tears came. _He doesn't understand what happened to you, goddammit. He will never know how much it fucking_ hurts.

Gilbert was staring at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish. But Lovino left before he could get a word out. He spun around and raced for the stairs, climbing them with such careless haste, that he nearly tripped and smashed his face on one of the steps. But he didn't care as he reached the top floor and rushed into the master bedroom, slamming the door shut.

And when he was there, alone and safe from judgmental eyes, he let out a sob and slid down the door, coming to rest at the bottom. He hadn't allowed himself to cry over Antonio, and now it had built up to this.

He threw his head back against the door and cried for a good half hour—until his eyes were stinging and puffy and his lungs were sore from sobbing. His whole body was shaking, and suddenly he felt… really tired.

In truth, Lovino hadn't slept in days. His dreams were haunted constantly by Antonio's bloody corpse. Every night, he'd wake up in a cold sweat, gasping, his heart aching.

Lovino slid to the floor, finding the soiled carpet a great deal more comfortable than the sleeping bag in which Antonio had come to haunt him in his dreams. He stretched out, too exhausted to move from in front of the door. He felt so defeated, so tired, so… _hopeless_.

 _Why did you have to be brave, you bastard?_ Lovino thought in a somber sort of anger. _We could have outrun them, I know we could have… you didn't have to die for me, you selfish fucker._ His eyes slipped closed of their own accord.

_Toni, why can't you still be alive?_

_I miss you so fucking much, you stupid bastard._

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Things are about to get sad. Like, really sad, guys. And complicated. Dammit, I miss Spain, too! *cries* Spain, where are you and your churros? I need one right now, y'all, seriously. TT_TT


	46. What Can't Be Forgotten

**This chapter will leave a bittersweet taste in your mouth.  
**

Warning: Angst, some Spamano, fluff, lemon (not telling the pairing, that is a surprise!), verbal abuse, rape, and violent use of weapons.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**What Can't Be Forgotten**

" _Te amo, Lovi."_

_Plump lips met his, and Lovino brought up his hands to tangle in the unruly brown locks._

_"Te amo,"_

_Soft hands ran up Lovino's sides, caressing, comforting, arousing. He wanted more. So much more…_

_"Mi amor," The voice was as smooth as silk, as tempting as cool water in a sweltering desert. Lovino's body heated as he was laid down and the man he loved bent over him, kissing down his face, neck, and chest._

_"Mía para siempre…" Toni captured his lips once again, and they kissed softly, but passionately, Lovino pouring everything, every unsaid word, every feeling of love into it as he could. When they parted Lovino became frightened, and latched onto him, pulling him back down so that they lay chest-to-chest. Their heartbeats were as one._

_Toni smiled that damn idiotic smile down at him. "What is it, my tomate lindo?"_

_Lovino scoffed. He didn't tell Toni how much he adored the nickname, no matter how stupid it was. It was his. It was what Toni called him. And Toni loved him so much, he could tell…_

_Lovino's arms wrapped more tightly around him, and he buried his face in Toni's shoulder, suddenly feeling the urge to cry, suddenly feeling like he would lose everything, but not knowing why. "Don't ever leave me, you bastard."_

_Toni kept smiling against his neck and kissed him there. Such a sweet, soft kiss… it made Lovino desperate for more._

_"Of course I won't leave you, mi dulce." Toni replied. He pushed back to brush some stray hairs from Lovino's face. Those deep green eyes bore into the Italian's, making a new rush of tears gather behind Lovino's eyes. They were both naked, skin against skin, and Lovino had a desperate need to feel every inch of Toni's body against him. "Why would you ever say that?"_

_Lovino blinked up at him, tears running down his face. But the bastard just kept on smiling. "Don't be fucking brave for me. I don't want you hurt…" He didn't know why he said it; all he knew was that it needed to be said._

_"Lovino," Toni replied, staring straight at him, like he could see through him. "I will always be here. No matter what, mi amor. No matter what happens, I will always be with you."_

_Lovino sobbed, not knowing why he was so sad, pulling Toni into a tight embrace. He just lay there and cried, not feeling in the least bit embarrassed. In Toni's arms, he was safe. In Toni's arms, he was not judged. With Toni, he was in love._

_Toni whispered sweet words in Spanish in Lovino's ear; my darling, my sweet, my dear, my love._

_And a few little words flashed in Lovino's mind, as if it were echoing, as if it were all around him, inside him…_

_"I love you, Lovino."_

_"I love you, my tomate lindo."_

A rapid knocking brought Lovino to his senses.

He blinked open his eyes and sat up shakily, wearily, looking around.

Where was he? Had something happened while he had been asleep?

And then it all came back to him. The Uprising. The running. Antonio's death…

The knocking sounded again along with a voice on the other side of the door.

"Hey! Open up, dumbass. West said I should bring you your sleeping bag and unawesomely apologize to you…"

Lovino held in a sob, though his lungs ached to do so and his throat burned to let it free. He willed away tears as he pushed himself to his feet. If anything, he would not lose himself in front of the Prussian bastard again.

He opened the door, and Gilbert was standing there, his form starkly white against the darkness of the hallway. He held up Lovino's sleeping bag, looking meek.

"Here you go," He tossed it at him, and Lovino caught it in his arms. He glared.

Gilbert scratched the back of his head awkwardly, and looked at his shoes. "So, um, ja, I'm sorry or whatever for making you cry and shit…"

Lovino was about to shout that he had not been crying, but he stayed silent, still staring stonily at Gilbert. His eyes were red—Antonio's favorite color. They were red just like the tomatoes he and Lovino would pick together on a hot summer's day. Red just like the sauce they made for dinner on so many nights, just for the two of them. Red, just like the sheets Antonio had laid Lovino down on, had made love to him on…

He didn't realize that he was crying again until Gilbert looked up at him, expression turning to worry, and saying, "Lovino… are you all right? Jeez, I said I was sorry…"

Lovino gave an angry whine as he wiped furiously at his eyes. Every fucking time! Every fucking, goddamn time…

Gilbert was staring at him now. "Lovino?" The Prussian had that same look on his face that Antonio always had when he was worried that Lovino had hurt himself…

"No," Lovino muttered, but not to Gilbert.

Gilbert frowned. "What? Lovino, what are you say—?"

"No!" Lovino shouted, throwing down the sleeping bag and shaking his head. He couldn't stop crying. He just couldn't… "No, get out of my head, you bastard! You're dead! Leave me alone! I can't fucking cry for you anymore!"

Gilbert took a step back, staring warily at him. "L-Lovino, I think you're a bit tired…"

Lovino glared at Gilbert. The man he hated. Well, one of the worst, at least. He hated his over-inflated ego, his constant jibes and jokes, those ruby red eyes that reminded him every bit of his lover and of how he had died… the color of the blood that had run from his broken body…

Before Gilbert could move, Lovino marched up to him, a look of determined rage on his face. Those red eyes widened and…

Lovino kissed him.

Gilbert was so shocked that he nearly bolted when they parted. It was chaste, but it was also… desperate. Not the needy kind of desperate, nor the whorish kind… but a vital desperate, like Lovino wouldn't be sane without him. The amount of feeling passed through the short kiss was startling to Gilbert, but confusion left him as he went in for another.

Lovino accepted grudgingly, mind whirling. He was kissing a man he hated. Crying in front of him, now _kissing_ him…

 _I just want it to go away._ Lovino thought with longing as Gilbert's tongue slipped into his mouth. Lovino willingly accepted it, sucking on it. _I want Toni to go away._

_Make me forget the hurt._

Lovino was in a type of delirium, but he focused on Gilbert's every touch to bring him back to the situation at hand. Somewhere in the mix, their clothes were discarded… and now they were lying naked, Gilbert on top of him, kissing him, giving him all that he wanted, distracting him, making him forget the void within him.

Slicked fingers prodded at his entrance, and Lovino gladly spread his legs, welcoming them inside. The digits were rough; Lovino bit his lip as they scissored him with haste. Above him, Gilbert panted, looking down at him with a sort of wild abandon in his eyes.

They both needed this.

The fingers were gone, and a cock soon pushed its way inside him. Lovino cried out, fingers digging into Gilbert's fair skin, and the Prussian bent forward, kissing down his face, his neck, his chest…

And then he was moving, in and out, in and out. Lovino indulged in his senses, the feelings flooding him. He let his thoughts of Antonio be chased away by his new-found pleasure.

A hand wrapped around Lovino's shaft, and he gasped out a word that was deaf to his own ears, coming in hot bursts that left him limp and sated.

He let Gilbert fuck him until he too reached his end. The Prussian didn't bother to pull out—his warm seed flooded Lovino's still-pulsing insides, heating him from within.

When it was finished, Gilbert rolled off of him to lie beside him on Lovino's sleeping bag, breaths heavy and sweat glistening on his skin. The Prussian turned to look at him, opened his mouth to say something, but Lovino didn't want to snap back to reality again so soon. He turned his back to Gilbert, slipped inside his sleeping bag, and shut his eyes.

This time, Antonio did not disturb his slumber.

* * *

Francis lay on the cold linoleum floor, defeated, defiled, done.

The last man zipped up and smiled down at him. "That was good, pussy boy. We'll give ya a couple of hours."

Francis held in a whimper, biting his lip which had long since split under the pressure of his teeth. He could still taste the men in his mouth, still feel their filthy cum running out of his abused ass…

He felt so violated and defeated that he wanted nothing more than to curl up and cry his eyes out. But he could not let these men see him weak, at least weaker than he already probably looked…

And it hurt. Incredibly so. The physical pain was horribly agonizing, but the mental damage the men had caused was far worse. They made him feel lower than dirt; like a thing to be used at anytime in any way. And it didn't help that he was chained up like a dog.

The men hadn't been gentle. Not in the least. As soon as Harley was finished taking him, another man quickly took his place. He was never given any time to recover, and at some point another man occupied his mouth. Francis had serviced everyone, sometimes twice over, even those opposed to fucking him. His stomach roiled to think of how much cum he had been forced to swallow and how much more had been forced up his ass. He wanted to throw up.

He now lay with his back to the men. He was relieved that he was being ignored… for now. He wanted more than anything to run away, to escape—but it was hard to think clearly with what had just happened.

An hour came and went. Francis had been counting the seconds, and he tensed, waiting for the abuse again. But the men seemed to be drifting off, and before long Francis could hear their soft snores. Not until everyone was asleep did Francis breathe a sigh of relief.

He lay there, in the dark and cold, completely nude and shivering with the onset of the autumn night air. But he forced himself to think; the time for enduring was over… he had to get back to Matthew, (he knew how the Canadian worried). He had to escape, for him…

His hands reached up, fingers cramming beneath the rusty collar, pulling, scrabbling. When it was clear that the collar was not coming off without the key, he tugged lightly on the chain, careful not to make too much noise. He was constantly glancing over his shoulder to confirm that the men were still sleeping across the cafeteria.

As he worked the chain, Francis couldn't help but feel utterly abandoned. Where were his friends? Weren't they coming to get him? Why hadn't they saved him? He felt a great anger toward them, and he promptly began blaming them for the rapes that he had endured. If they had been faster, if they had gotten to him sooner…

He flinched as the chain broke. Just snapped, the rust giving way. But Francis knew that couldn't be all that had broken the metal link. He lifted the chain, examining the break and blinked.

It had been previously worked, whittled away. He cast a grateful look over to the dead woman still lying beside him.

"Merci, madmoiselle." Francis whispered and gathered the chain still attached to the collar in his arms before sneaking slowly out of the cafeteria (but not before pulling on some pants, or rather what as left of them, and slipping on his shoes).

His whole body was tense, his ass aching, as he walked out, and a couple of times he had to catch his chain, keeping it from clattering to the floor. Once he passed the guard at the entrance to the cafeteria, he was as good as free.

And then his chain dropped.

He couldn't catch it.

It hit the floor with a loud _clang_ and the guard stirred, eyes snapping open. Francis opened his mouth in a silent scream, then gathered up his chain, making a mad dash for the front of the school.

He could hear the guard shout, and in a moment, many more footfalls joined his. Francis's heart was pounding as he ran, and he reached the doors. He pushed through them, flying outside, tripping and falling onto his knees. The men were so close behind him… just behind the door…

He tried to get up, but stumbled over the chain. By the time he staggered to his feet, the men were upon him, guns at his temples and hands restrained behind his back

Jamal walked up to him, leering. "Oh, look. Pussy boy tried to escape. Don't mean to break your spirit, but we kinda expected a runaway. You're French, after all." Then he leaned down until they were close enough that Francis could smell his sour breath. "Now, how about you be a good little bitch and come quietly, huh?"

Francis knew he shouldn't do it, avidly screamed at himself in his mind not to, but he was just so angry. He looked Jamal right in the eyes and spit in his face.

Jamal blinked, more out of surprise than shock, and stood, wiping off his face with the back of his hand. He smiled.

"You know what?" Jamal said, his voice suspiciously soft. "I've decided we don't need your ass anymore. You cause too much trouble. And why keep you when we can have our pick of any guy within your group? How about that Asian one, eh? He looked cute—slippery as an eel, though. Or that blond, British one with the big eyebrows. Eh, I don't like them brows, but then again, I like taking any whore whose face is pressed against the floor. That's their place, after all. Better know it well."

Francis's eyes went wide, and he instantly regretted running away. He would do anything, even be a whore to these disgusting men to keep them from doing the same horrible things to the rest of his group. They didn't know about Matthew yet, but, oh God, if they found out…

"No, I'm your whore." Francis said. It was really hard to get out. "You chose me to take, so you have me. I will submit willingly. I have been with many other men before, so I know how to satisfy you. The rest… they do not."

Jamal's smile softened—only for it to disappear instantly. "Tell me, then. What kind of 'submissive whore' would try to run away and then spit in my face? That seems a bit too shady for me to just let go…"

Peter looked up from his place holding a gun to Francis's head. "Are we done here, Jamal?"

Jamal nodded, smile quickly returning, though considerably more sinister this time. "Yeah, I think we are. Dispose of him… we can't afford to have disobedient whores."

Francis yelped as his hair was tugged back. Pete pressed the gun barrel further into Francis's temple.

"Shoot so that he bleeds out slowly." Jamal said with amusement. "And after he's gone, we can all choose our own whores from his little friends."

Francis closed his eyes as the gun cocked. He wanted to do more, but he could not. He knew it was over. He only wished that he could have told Arthur that he loved him. Then again, that would only make the Briton hurt more when he found Francis dead at the hands of his captors.

_Matthew, my little one. Don't cry for me. I want you always to be happy…_

Peter pulled the trigger.

* * *

Translations:

 _Mía para siempre-_ Mine forever

 _Tomate lindo-_ Cute tomato

 _Mi dulce-_ My sweet

The rest are pretty much self-explanatory.

A Word From the Writer: Damn, so much sadness and lemon-y goodness mixed in with this one! I have to say, this is one of my favorite chapters, just because of the stark contrast between the sex and the rape and because I got to write Spamano. I think you deserve a little Spamano after hearing Lovino talking and thinking about it for the longest time. But still, that ending... *sigh* well, it has finally come to this. The next few chapters will be incredibly sad and depressing, but still good drama nonetheless. Drama and death go hand in hand, but that doesn't mean it wasn't hard for me to write. France is one of my favorite characters (aside from Russia and England) because he's a pervert (like me). *Shrugs* Guess my favorites are the ones I pick on the most, so look out, hehe.

Those goddamn cliffhangers! XD


	47. Last Rose of Summer

**I just wanna huggle Canada. TT_TT  
**

Warning: Violence, weapons, threats, character death, mention of rape, just some really sad stuff, y'all.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Last Rose of Summer**

_Arthur stood on the cliffs of Dover, staring down into the turbulent waters below. On the horizon, a dark storm gathered, churning up the sea. The Briton felt so comforted by the sight, however gloomy it was. He missed the cliffs, and anything that reminded him of home was cause for happiness in his mind._

_He walked toward the edge, intent on sitting on the wind-dried grass, but felt an urge to keep standing and keep walking. He went until he was at the very precipice of the cliffs, staring down at the water. It was strangely lulling, the waves and foam drawing him in…_

_And then he found with horror that he was falling, the slope of the cliff flying past him, blurring… the salty wind stinging his face and eyes. He found that he had no breath to scream, the wind swiping away his words, falling, falling…_

_When he hit the water, it felt like a million icy needles piercing his flesh. The breath was squeezed from his lungs, and Arthur flailed, scrambling for the surface. But no matter how much he swam, he could not reach it._

_And then he looked down._

_His former first mate, Christopher, once a bright and happy youth, was now a living corpse. His skin had the consistency of curdled milk, and it oozed off of his body with every sweeping current of water. His eyes were black and his smile was overly large._

_"How nice to see you, captain," the boy said, grabbing Arthur's leg. "We feared you wouldn't join us… but we know you're a good captain. You pledged to go down with your ship, remember?"_

_Arthur nearly gasped as his leg was pulled. His arms hurriedly parted the water above him, but Christopher continued to tug him downward, and many more hands darted out of the ocean's black depths to latch onto his limbs, his former crew come to retrieve him, dragging him down, down, down, into cold, into Hell… Arthur felt as if his lungs would explode._

_And Christopher's voice, distorted by death, echoed in his mind._

_"A good captain always goes down with his ship, Arthur."_

He sat bolt upright, clutching his chest and gasping in large amounts of air before falling back against the wall. He stared at the ceiling, panting, shaking, sweating despite the bitter cold.

"Bad dream?"

Arthur whipped his head around, heart hammering, to see Ivan observing him idly. The Briton tried to swallow, but his mouth was dry.

"Y-yeah…" Arthur managed, though he was too stricken to say anything else.

That dream—it had felt so real. Like he couldn't breathe, like he was drowning. He could still feel his first mate's icy grip around his ankle…

Alfred shifted against him. The American was curled into him, sitting with his legs drawn up and head on Arthur's shoulder. The sight brought Arthur a bit of comfort, and he gave a small smile as Alfred lightly snored.

Kiku was awake also, and watching. His voice startled Arthur. "It is morning, and the rain has stopped. We should get going."

"Da," Ivan grunted as he stood, stretching a bit. "Wake Alfred up."

Arthur didn't want to leave. He didn't want to move. He wanted to stay here, holed away safely behind file cabinets, not wanting to return to the stark reality that was the Uprising. But he resigned himself, shaking Alfred awake. The American grumbled a bit before opening his eyes and asking groggily, "Morning already?"

"Yes," Arthur said. "We have to look for Francis."

Alfred sat up, stretching his arms, before remembering. "Mattie must be a wreck."

"Let us not linger, then." Ivan said, jumping the counter back into the store. The others followed, and then they were out in the sunlight, blinking for the harshness of it as it warmed their faces.

They walked around for a half an hour before spotting the school. It was placed away from downtown, which was where they had been originally looking. They stood before it, studying it curiously, before they crept up to the front doors and peered inside.

They saw no one… but they certainly heard somebody.

With that, Kiku said for them to follow him, to do exactly as he did. They obeyed, crouching when necessary, going slow, observing their surroundings with insurmountable scrutiny, as quiet as death. Then, they were by the cafeteria, where the group of criminals was gathered.

"Do we go in?" Alfred mouthed, anxious to shoot the fuckers.

Kiku peered in, noticing with relief that the men had piled their guns on a table in a far corner of the room. They were laughing and joking. It made Kiku sick.

He nodded to Alfred, seeing excitement light in Alfred's eyes before standing, leading them into the cafeteria.

The men were still laughing, not noticing their presence at first, and then one man's eyes went wide as he saw them. It wasn't long before all of them turned around to face them, in shock.

"Too cocky to fortify your entrances." Alfred said, glaring. He had his shotgun aimed at them. "Typical inmate. That's why only the Uprising freed you from prison, huh?"

A tall black man narrowed his eyes at them, his hands up, just like the rest of his group. "You didn't heed our warning." he said venomously. "You came to find us."

"Yes," Arthur said. "Now we've caught you with your trousers down."

One man eyed the assortment of weapons on the table in the corner and Alfred aimed his shotgun at him. "Don't move!"

The man stopped and put his hands up.

"We came here for our friend." Ivan said dangerously. "Where is Francis?"

Jamal guffawed. "Oh, you mean pussy boy? Yeah, we had our fun with him… you really missed out if you haven't taken his ass."

All the color drained from Arthur's face, and he felt like shooting the man right in the mouth, through those sickly-smiling teeth. But he restrained himself. "Where is he?" he ground out

Jamal stopped laughing to smile wickedly. He nodded across the room. "Right there for ya. Wrapped for pick up."

Their eyes trailed across the room and Arthur's heart sank.

A lifeless mound was sprawled in a dark corner. A blanket was draped over it. Blond hair fanned out from beneath it, caked with dried blood.

All they could do was stare in disbelief for a moment. A moment that seemed to last a lifetime.

They had lost a member of their group.

Francis was dead.

They were pulled abruptly out of their reverie by movement out of the corners of their vision. Ivan noticed it first and snapped his head back to the convicts before them, lifting his AK-47 and blasting a hole through one of the men's chests. He put two more bullets in him before the man fell to his knees, dropping face-forward onto the floor, blood pooling beneath him. From his hand, a .45 M1911 pistol clattered to the floor.

The other convicts had stopped moving toward the direction of the weapons table. They had been doing so slowly during the nations' momentary lapse of inattention.

And now that one of their own had been killed, it was all out war.

Ivan shot down another convict before he could reach the weapons table. Arthur wounded a man in the leg. The convict howled in pain and dropped to his knees before the Briton finished him off with a shot to the side of his head. Brain matter and blood flew as he collapsed, bleeding, onto the floor. Kiku pinned one man to a wall with a thrown shuriken. The blade pierced through his arm, through flesh, and he screamed as he struggled to get free. One man rushed at them, weaponless, intent on some hand-to-hand. But Alfred shot him in the hip and Kiku dispatched him with a long slice to his torso courtesy of his katana. Blood sprayed and the man gurgled a bit before dying. They all spotted Jamal trying to flee, and they all launched attacks at him at once, shooting and slicing him until he looked akin to a gutted pig.

The last man had managed to get a gun, and he aimed it shakily at Kiku. But Ivan, Alfred, and Arthur shot him down before he could pull the trigger.

At the sight of all of his comrades dead, the man held down by the shuriken writhed and screamed, and Alfred quickly put him out of his misery, more out of annoyance and rage than mercy.

When it was all through, they looked at each other. Arthur didn't realize his heart was beating hard enough to crack his ribs.

"We… that was a bloodbath." Alfred spoke what all of them were thinking.

"I have seen worse." Ivan said.

Kiku watched the blood drip from his katana. "They were going to kill us. We had no choice."

"No," Arthur muttered. "Francis is dead. That's why it happened… we didn't even think…"

"Francis," Alfred said, looking over at the body across the room. "We should… carry him back. Bury him properly."

"Da," Ivan said. "That would be best."

They all walked over to the corpse… oh God, the word was so hard to even think. Francis was gone. This was his corpse. Arthur's stomach roiled.

 _You've done a lot of stupid things in your life, frog._ he thought. _But I never thought you'd die._

They stared down at the body under the white sheet, soaked with blood, blond hair matted with dirt and caked with red, in shock. This was a stark reality for them. They really weren't nations anymore. They could be killed by humans. No one was safe.

Ivan finally broke the tension and bent to pick Francis up. He held him in his arms as gently as he would hold any child.

Alfred could feel his gut twist. Mattie. He would be so heartbroken… and dammit, if they had gotten there earlier, if they had just kept looking instead of deciding to hunker down…

Ivan seemed to notice Alfred's brooding and said, his voice soft and sincere, "I think it is time that we returned."

* * *

Matthew turned as soon as he heard the back door open. And when he saw what Ivan was carrying—or rather who—he lost it.

"No," he said, as if trying to deny God the right to have his papa. "No, he can't be dead! He can't be dead!" It felt like a floodgate had been opened behind his eyes; there was no stopping the tears and he didn't care who saw them. Francis was dead, and there wasn't a goddamn thing he could do about it.

Alfred walked over to Matthew and held him, not saying a word. The Canadian wrapped his arms around him, clinging to him, as if he feared losing Alfred too, crying into his shoulder. No one said anything as Matthew grieved. They were all too busy taking in the tragedy.

Arthur stood by the door, looking away. Matthew sounded just like Alfred when he'd cried as a child… would Alfred cry the same way if something happened to Arthur? The Briton couldn't stand the thought of it. It made him realize how agonizing this must be for Matthew.

So. He was gone. The frog. The perverted cheesy monkey. His rival. Never in a million years—after so many years of combat with the Frenchman—did Arthur ever think it would end this way for Francis. Francis was always there, always a nuisance to him, a constant nagging in the back of his head, like a gnat he couldn't bat away. But now… there was a void.

He never knew he would miss Francis. Now, he admitted, he sorely did.

Matthew sobbed for a good ten minutes until his voice became raspy and his chest ached with every breath. He quieted eventually, just sniffling as Alfred hugged him tightly to his chest. Alfred knew Matthew just needed to be held. He'd always needed to be held when he was sad. Through their colonial years, Alfred had held him just like this, and he wouldn't let go until Matthew complained that he was crushing him.

And then Gilbert stood, snatching Ludwig's gun from right out of the holster at his brother's side. He had that face. That face he always had when he was intent upon killing someone.

"Where are those bastards?" he growled at Kiku. "I'll kill them with my own two hands!" He had lost two friends now, his very closest: first Antonio and now Francis. He hadn't admitted earlier that Antonio's death had hurt him, but now it was coming into stark realization with the sight of Francis's lifeless body.

Kiku gave him a solemn look. "They are no longer alive. We killed them all."

At this, Gilbert stared, then with a snarl of frustration, he tossed the gun across the room and smashed his fist into the wall, howling out his rage. He left a sizeable hole in the plaster, and his knuckles were bleeding and quite possibly bruised. But he didn't care. "I hope you killed them as brutally as possible. I would have caught them and broken every bone in their bodies before letting them bleed out."

The image shocked everyone, who were still reeling from the death, and Matthew stopped sniffling, staring. Then Ludwig put a hand on Gilbert's shoulder and said, "Bruder… I think you need to sit down."

Gilbert blinked, as if coming out of a daze, and complied. He stared blankly at the floor.

Across the room, Feliciano burst into tears. He had been so shocked at first, that the tears were kept at bay. But from Gilbert's outburst, he felt a harsh reality crash down upon him, and he put his face into his hands and cried and cried and cried. He had no desire to see Francis's body. Beside him, Lovino put his forehead to his temple, holding his hand, squeezing in reassurance. Feliciano's pant leg became wet from his brother's silent tears.

Once Matthew was consoled, they agreed to bury Francis. They looked for a place outside in the woods, spotting a beautiful rose bush. It seemed a sign to Arthur as he looked at it. It was fall, and bitterly cold, but the roses were still blooming, bright red and a dark, delicate pink.

Ivan dug the grave, just like he had with all the others. He had a sinking suspicion that he had been marked as the designated grave digger of the group, but he didn't mind the labor. Within ten minutes, the hole was dug. Ludwig and Gilbert lifted Francis's body into the grave. As Gilbert looked down into it, he found that Francis appeared quite small and fragile. His eyes welled with tears and he looked away.

Alfred muttered, "Do you want to take the sheet off?"

Matthew shook his head, suppressing another round of sobs. "No… no, leave it on. I don't want to see what they did to him." He couldn't see his papa hurt.

"Shall I fill it in?" Ivan asked, shovel at the ready.

"Wait," Arthur said, plucking some roses from off of the bush and dropping them down into the grave. "They were his favorite… it's only fitting."

At this, Matthew started crying again, muttering a string of 'thank you's to Arthur. He didn't know Arthur cared so much. He didn't know Arthur cared at all.

They all watched somberly as Ivan shoveled dirt over top of the corpse. It seemed so wrong in Arthur's eyes, covering him up like that forever. Dousing a light, that's what it was. A burning candle wick blown out abruptly with no warning whatsoever to the others relying on its light in the room.

And Arthur suddenly felt a longing in his gut. He had no one to argue with anymore over such petty things. He was already missing Francis's perverted remarks.

 _Why do I want him back?_ Arthur thought, his cheeks running wet and hot with tears. _Damn you, you French bastard. I can't believe you're making me cry over you._

They all came forward to say their words, but Arthur barely heard any of it. He was still so shocked by Francis's sudden death. The man who opposed him, the man who never gave up no matter how many times he was defeated, as annoying as that was. The man who, Arthur had to admit, had made a formidable opponent…

Was just… gone.

Just like that.

Forever.

Feliciano was taken back into the house by his brother afterward, followed by Ludwig, who was shrugged off by Gilbert. The albino was staring down at the mound of dirt, grief mixed with pure anger on his face, hands in his pockets. He later left with a growl of frustration rasped with mourning. Kiku left also, though no one really noticed, he was so quiet, taking the injured Sadiq with him. Wynston decided that he didn't need to see his father worry about him crying also, so he left Alfred to tend to Matthew. Yao shook his head, his heart hammering in his chest. In all his years, he had never seen nations drop like flies so quickly. Would he be next? Yao had always thought that, with his many years of experience, he could handle anything, but now… he was not so sure.

Then there were four: Ivan, Alfred, Matthew, and Arthur.

Matthew's crying had quieted a bit, but whimpers were still escaping him, and he couldn't stop them. He was gone. Francis was dead. He pulled away from Alfred to examine the grave, and for one wild moment, he contemplated snatching the shovel from Ivan, digging Francis up, and lying beside him. They would be buried together. It felt so right… it would be so beautiful and tragic, that Fate would weep for taking his papa away so cruelly…

And then Alfred's hand was on his shoulder, and Matthew remembered why he needed to live. He still had Alfred. Alfred would be devastated if he was gone. And he didn't want his brother to feel what agony Matthew was feeling now. Even though Alfred was an asshole, he didn't deserve this. No one deserved this.

He walked over to the grave. Being closer to it, knowing that just below his feet, the remnants of the man who had raised him—who he had called Papa—was curled up and cold, so many feet below, unreachable, salvageable, it was unbearable. His legs turned to jelly with the thought, and he went down, crying out as his knee snapped back into place with a very painful _pop_. On his knees. But he barely felt it; compared to his intense grief, it was but a trifle. Matthew put his face in his hands, hunched over, and cried all over again. But this time he _screamed._ It felt right. To tell the hellish world and the greedy God what pain they had caused him. So he screamed out his sorrows. Screamed out his frustration. Screamed out his pain.

Alfred didn't touch him. This was Matthew's moment. His brother needed this. He needed to vent his grief. He needed to let it out. But that didn't stop Alfred from silently crying to himself, hand over his face to hide it.

Arthur, though, wished with all his heart for Matthew to stop. Even though Francis had raised the boy, Arthur had always had a soft spot for him. He didn't like to see the Canadian cry. It broke his heart. He wanted to rush over and hug him and scream for him, take all his pain away with the power of his lungs, show him that he was not alone. But Arthur was still, and he listened to Matthew's mournful ballad. Without fully knowing it, tears streamed down his own face.

Ivan stared. Just stared. He did not cry. He did not mourn. He had decided when he'd found his dead sisters that he was through with mourning. In this hellhole of a world, there was no time for grief. And he had cried all the tears in his body in his youth, during his most turbulent times. He was stronger now, and Matthew was getting stronger in the same way he had.

The Canadian was learning that the world and God were cruel. Ivan had realized this long before and fully expected what precious things of his own could be taken from him at a moment's notice.

Matthew could have stayed out there forever. Could have cried for centuries. Could have just laid there and waited until Death took him, too. But Alfred's hand on his shoulder guided him to his feet.

"Let's go inside." Alfred muttered, letting Matthew lean on him (as his knee was still throbbing with pain), leading him back into the house.

Arthur continued to stare solemnly down at the grave, still not accepting the fact that Francis was gone.

"It is done," Ivan said. He stepped forward and drew a cross in the dirt above the grave with the point of his shovel.

Arthur felt tears push at his eyes again, and he seriously hoped that Francis didn't see them. Ivan was marking Francis's death. It was permanent now. Francis would never return.

They both made their way back into the house. It was still noon, but everyone was in their sleeping bags and respective resting places. Except for Alfred; the American was curled around his brother, holding Matthew on the couch, fingers intertwined with the Canadian's. Matthew had stopped crying, going suspiciously silent. His indigo stare was blank and myopic—as if he was not seeing anything. It worried Arthur.

Seeing as everyone was too stricken to speak, Arthur made his way to his sleeping bag and settled down in it. But he didn't feel like he could sleep. He was too shocked by the day's events to sleep. He was paranoid. Were there more convicts out there? Was the Organization near? Of course they were. Danger was always close. Francis's death proved that.

But Arthur lay down his head and stared, thinking it strange that he could no longer feel Francis watching him. Why did he miss that?

Was it that night with the thunder and the rain? When they had shared a tent and much more between them? They hadn't talked about what had conspired that night they'd spent together, curled up to each other. Arthur was too ashamed to even mention it. But he never realized how confusing it would be for him if Francis had died without giving him answers. What was all that about? Sure, Francis liked sex, and he had been trying to pick Arthur up for centuries. But, somehow, in the midst of all this hell, being forced close together, it made Arthur think that it could have been something more.

Could have been. Now that was the saying. Arthur had been too afraid to ask, and now he would never know. The thought made him feel guilty—guilty that he had not been able to give Francis whatever it was that the Frenchman had wanted from him. The man had died with too many loose strings. And now Arthur was paying for it in grief and in confusion.

 _Stupid frog._ he thought almost grudgingly. _You've always been a git. And you stay true to it by dying and leaving a million questions behind. No doubt to only addle me for the rest of my life. I never thought I'd say this but… you won, Francis. Finally. You've left me with questions that have no answers, something which I cannot win over. Scheming prat…_

Arthur recalled how Francis had touched him and shook away the thoughts. _No,_ he told himself firmly. _He's a no-good wanker. He just wanted some… nothing more._ Though Arthur knew he was just lying to himself to stave away what he really knew was truth. But the truth would only trouble him more, and he didn't need that in times like these.

Arthur swallowed dryly and closed his eyes, but sleep never found him. And he knew everyone else was in his same position. There were no heavy breaths. No snoring. No Alfred talking and squirming in his sleep.

But he would rather have had that instead of the agonizing silence that hung over them until evening fell and the first stars came out. Matthew shifted his gaze to stare out of the window with a kind of loathing admiration.

Francis was dead. And he couldn't believe the world was cold enough to go on, as if everything was perfectly normal.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Cheesy chapter title is cheesy. But all the sad stuff made up for it enough, I think. And, yes, England did cry. Why he did, even he doesn't know. And Prussia went berserk there for a second. Hmm, just watch him closely, people. There's definitely something more going on in his head than just his best friend dying.


	48. If We Could Go Back

**WARNING. Epic mindfuck ahead.  
**

Warning: Threats, angst, some arguments, mention of Spamano, RusAme, and Prumano.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**If We Could Go Back**

Ivan was surprised to admit it, but he felt cold without Alfred lying beside him. He glanced almost jealously at where he was laying on the couch with Matthew for what must have been the millionth time that night. The truth was, Ivan was scared. He rarely ever got scared.

But he was scared for Alfred.

Scared that when the time came, Ivan would be unable save him from the ever-snatching claws of Death.

He suddenly realized that they needed more time. And since he could not guarantee that, he settled for more time spent together. He was determined to know Alfred before they died. But they were running out of time.

As always, Gilbert couldn't stand the silence. But it was more out of anxiety than boredom. He sat up in his sleeping bag, and he could feel all of their gazes upon him.

"All right. All this quiet is… unawesome."

"Don't talk, then, dammit." Lovino growled, though his voice was raspy and defeated.

"No one else is." Gilbert said, barely able to look at the Italian. "You're all in a grieving stupor and no one is saying shit about what we should do next."

"Well, since you're so bloody talkative," Arthur snapped. "What do you propose we do?"

"I say we get the fuck out of here. It's not safe anymore, and who knows if there are more convicts nearby? Or some Organization member?"

"No," Matthew croaked, and everyone looked worriedly at him. He was staring right at Gilbert, eyes smoldering behind his glasses. "I want to be near Francis."

"Francis is dead." Gilbert said rather coldly, though he swallowed uncomfortably when he did. "What are you hoping for? The best thing to do is to accept that he's gone and move on before—"

"Let him mourn, for God's sake." Arthur said, pushing himself into a sitting position. "He's just lost the man who raised him!"

Gilbert stood, fists clenched. "And what if you lost Alfred by staying here, huh? Would feel guilty about staying _then_?"

"No one will touch him as long as I am around." Arthur said stonily. " _No one,_ "

Alfred shook his head, but Arthur ignored him. The git would not be playing 'hero' again. That was for certain.

"I'm sure Mattie would have said the same thing about Francis, but look at him now! Nowhere civilized is safe. We have to accept that." Gilbert then added somberly, "We should have listened to Alfred. We should never have come here."

"We can't change that now." Ivan said. "What is done is done."

"Ja, but we can prevent more tragedies by leaving."

"You cold bastard." Matthew muttered, staring stonily at Gilbert. The Prussian snapped his gaze to him, mouth opening and closing, trying to form a reply, but too shocked at the accusation to do so. Matthew continued, "Francis was your _friend_. And now you're talking about him like he's nothing but a worthless pile of dust to be forgotten about as it blows away on the wind."

Gilbert scowled, offended. He looked just about to boil over with rage, but he held it in because of the position Matthew was in. In normal circumstances, though, he would shout down anyone who accused him of betraying his friends. "Don't make me out to be a heartless sonofabitch. I hate losing Francis just as much as you. But do you think this decision is _easy_ for me? It's taking everything in me not to just snatch up a gun, pop off a round, shoot the fuck out of any of those bastards even slightly associated with that goddamn Organization who're not chickenshit enough to show up. But even though Francis is gone, I still have responsibilities. Just like you, and everyone else in here. You think I want my bruder killed like that, too? Goddammit, I've lost my two best friends and I'll be damned if I lose my bruder as well! Don't you understand? I've never run away from a fucking thing in my life, and now I'm being _forced_ to. Because for once I realize that I _can't_ stay and fight. After Toni and Francis—it took me fucking long enough and I'm not sure if I'll be able to maintain it, because every fiber of my body is fucking _screaming_ to go out there and fuck anyone up who comes within my sight!"

They all fell into a stunned silence, Matthew staring with round eyes and Alfred glaring threateningly.

Ludwig finally stood and put a hand on his brother's tense shoulder. "East—"

"Nein," Gilbert shook off his hold. "We need to leave."

No one moved.

"Mattie," Alfred said. "He's right." Though he gave a look to Gilbert that clearly told him not to speak to Matthew like that ever again.

Matthew felt anger for his brother. Alfred was asking him to _abandon_ Francis. He was sure Alfred wouldn't be so eager to do so if it had been Arthur who had been killed. But he forced himself to be calm—there was no need for more drama. Alfred, after all, only wanted the best for him. But Matthew was still reluctant. "But Francis—"

"Mattie," Alfred said firmly. "You have to let go. You can't keep lingering around here and getting lost in grief. Francis would have wanted you to be safe. You need to let go."

Matthew squinted his eyes shut. "I can't," he mumbled with strain, tears squeezed out from under the closed lids. "I _can't_ let go, Al. Francis is, he was—"

Alfred's arms grew tighter around him. "He would have wanted you to leave. You still have your memories of him. He can't give anything else to you now. Staying here is not what he would have wanted for you."

Matthew shook his head, wanting to believe that Francis did want him to stay there, to continue to honor his memory, but he knew Francis would not have wanted that. He let out a shaky breath and nodded, "A-all right. When do we leave?"

Arthur examined the sky. Menacing, indigo clouds blotted out the moon and stars, and the rain still persisted. "When the rain stops. I'll be damned if I'm snuffed out by a cold."

* * *

It rained for two days straight. Occasionally, it would stop, and the group would scramble to pack their things. But when they were just heading out of the door, the rain would start again and they would be forced back inside.

Arthur, who in a way had become an unspoken leader of the group, was not taking any chances. Already they had lost two group members by murder and nearly another by illness. Both were things he was convinced he could protect against if only he could convince them to keep their heads and stick to their common sense. But now Arthur was in a tedious position. Now he felt that he had sole responsibility for the survival of the whole group. It was a great burden on his shoulders, but nothing that Arthur didn't think he could manage.

Nothing much happened during those days. Matthew was worriedly quiet and Alfred was always nearby. The American didn't openly comfort Matthew, because he knew that Matthew needed to get through this on his own. Gilbert was moodily silent. Once he'd suggested that they'd head out through the rain, but he had been quickly shouted down. Now he was brooding over in a secluded corner of the room, everyone being sure not to go near. Ludwig, however, muttered occasionally to him. But Gilbert never seemed to hear him. He kept glaring at the wall, his gaze menacing enough to burn through it. But it wasn't Francis that was on Gilbert's mind. No, he'd gotten that out of his system long ago.

He was thinking about he and Lovino. What they did a couple nights back. Was it desperation? Spite? Lovino had seemed so unstable when it had happened, but then again, the Italian had initiated it. But why? Hadn't he and Lovino just fought over Antonio's death? It didn't make sense. If Lovino claimed to love Antonio as much as he said he did—as much as Lovino _acted_ as he did—then why, _why_ would he want to have sex with Gilbert? Lovino had never liked Gilbert, had completely hated him, had expressed it a billion times over in every imaginable way.

He cast a glance over to the Italian, not for the first time that day. But Lovino's face was blank, held no hint to what he was thinking. The truth was, Gilbert had been watching Lovino more than he cared to admit. And he was worried. Lovino had never been one to let anyone he hated dominate him so easily. Well, maybe politically, but definitely not sexually. Lovino's behavior was unusual and worrying. Had the Italian finally cracked? He _had_ lost his lover. And, apparently, he was still in love with Antonio. Very much so. And anyone who could get that close to Lovino must be really special. What Gilbert couldn't wrap his head around was why Lovino could possibly betray that love.

Betrayal. That's what Gilbert had done. Betrayed his best friend, Antonio, by sleeping with his living lover. And, somewhere (Gilbert hoped _up there_ ), Antonio was cursing him, shaking his head at him, disappointed. It made Gilbert's heart sink. Gilbert had always been loyal… until now. And to think that he was disturbing Antonio's rest… it made his stomach churn with guilt.

But it wasn't like Gilbert had hated the sex. It was fucking amazing to have such a release after weeks running and worrying. And Lovino had been surprisingly willing and responsive. He seemed like he wanted it, like he was desperate for it. And Gilbert felt so guilty about taking advantage of Lovino during a very sensitive time for him and he sorely hoped that Lovino didn't hate him for it. But after the sex, Lovino had been so quiet and cold. He didn't talk to him and, lately, didn't even acknowledge that Gilbert was there. When Gilbert had woken the next morning, Lovino was gone. Lovino's eyes were always downcast, his face always blank ever since. It unnerved Gilbert more than it rightfully should.

Now he felt a responsibility. _Toni, I'm sorry. I should never have done it, I should have rejected him… but I will take care of him now. For you. I'll make sure he stays safe._

But he couldn't deny a bit of jealousy. During the height of their passions, Lovino had shouted Antonio's name. Not his. Was Lovino just using Gilbert as a vessel to get off? It enraged and confused the Prussian at the same time. He needed answers. Antonio's death. Francis's murder. Lovino's aloofness. He needed some fucking answers or he might just go insane.

The days were getting colder, and this one was no different in bitterness. Everyone stayed confined to their sleeping bags during most of the day. Kiku, always being of sound mind, made them dinner from the cans they had gathered. The food warmed them, but only physically. Everyone was hollow on the inside.

Feliciano didn't like the silence. And he especially didn't like how Lovino was acting. His brother had always been a stick in the mud, yes, but he seemed to be really… empty. It was like his spirit had flown out of him and the Lovino he was actually seeing was nothing but an empty shell. Lovino just sat there in his sleeping bag, moving occasionally, but never really looking at anything. It was as if his brother had gone blind.

Feliciano longed to ask Lovino what was wrong, but if he tried he knew that he would be breaking the delicate atmosphere that had been created and he didn't want to have that responsibility.

Everyone pretty much kept to themselves. Alfred was near Matthew, but he never spoke to him. Not a word. He just sat there, picking at the seams in his sleeping bag, carving out the floorboards with the end of his pocketknife, or just staring at a wall. He should feel bored. But he wasn't, really. It was like he was waiting for something grand to happen. He didn't know what, but it was enough for him to keep quiet and stay patient.

But it was at Ivan's expense. The Russian was already so worked up about what little time they might have left together, and he and Alfred both knew it. Ivan kept glancing at him, a silent plea in his eyes for Alfred to look at him, to say something to him, to come lay with him, if only for a minute, _anything_. And it made Alfred sad. But it felt so wrong to indulge in his newfound love with Ivan when Matthew was suffering. Ivan knew that, too, but that didn't stop him from trying to convince Alfred otherwise.

Finally, in the evening on the second day, the rain stopped. At first, no one moved, only watched silently for it to start again, as per usual. But it didn't. And so, Arthur was the first one to speak for hours.

"We should go, if that's any sign." His voice was hoarse from not speaking for a while, and he cleared his throat. "Shall we?"

Within minutes, they were ready to leave. And it was a good thing too. The house had had an affect on all of them. They thought it was safe. They thought it would protect them. They had been so wrong. The house, now, was an evil thing, something that fed off of their naivety and their belief that it would prove a useful asset to them. In their own ways they saw it as a hunched monster, whispering comfort in one ear while plunging a knife in the other.

It had, after all, lulled them into a sense of false security. So much so that they had lost Francis. And that was unforgivable.

Wordless, they trundled into the woods at the back of the house. They had made sure to take everything with them that the house had offered, but it wasn't much. A few matches. A hammer. Ammunition. Some twine. A bungee cord.

Their walk through the woods was solemn. Matthew watched the house until it disappeared behind the trees. And then he felt a deep, longing ache in his chest, but a great weight lifting off his shoulders at the same time. The cycle of mourning had been broken. Francis was gone. They were leaving him to rest. There was no reason why Matthew needed to worry.

Wynston, who felt like he'd been thoroughly forgotten about, walked at the head of the group, guiding them along. Though it felt more like he was leading lambs to slaughter. It all fell to him, it seemed. He had been the one who had suggested that they go to the town. His dad had been right. And now, Wynston was paying for his refusal to listen to him in guilt.

Then he remembered something and stopped abruptly. He turned to them and was alarmed when only a few looked up to acknowledge him.

"Guys," he said with great effort. "There ain't gonna be another body a water for miles. I forgot to ask, but does everyone have enough water?"

There was silence as they checked their canteens.

"I'm all out," Alfred answered.

"Me too," Arthur replied.

"Si," Lovino muttered, and Feliciano jumped next to him. It had been the first word he had heard him say in days.

Wynston sighed, feeling, once again, guilty. "I shoulda known to ask ya'll sooner. I'm such a goddamn dumbass…"

"No," Alfred said. "You're just shaken. We're all shaken. It's no wonder none of us thought about refilling our canteens before we left."

"Al," Matthew said quietly. "We can't go back there." Matthew's heart was pounding at the prospect. He could just imagine walking past that house again, seeing Francis's ghost, seeing the disapproval in his eyes at the fact that Matthew had left him behind. It had taken him so much to let go. It was almost unfair to even suggest going back.

"We have to," Arthur said, looking in the direction of the town. "We should be near the square. There's a fountain there. I'm sure it's overflowing with rainwater. Could say less about the bugs…"

"We have iodine." Yao said. "Let's go, get it over with, and leave this fucking place."

It took them all but ten minutes to reach the square, and they made sure to thoroughly scan the place for others who might want to cause them harm. As soon as they had concluded that there was no one around, they began to move.

"No, wait." Sadiq said, leaning on Ludwig for support. He still looked pale from his illness, but he'd assured them he was well enough to walk. "Should we just go out in twos or threes? You know, just in case someone is waiting?"

"No," Alfred said firmly. "We're not splitting up again. Some of us almost died doing that and one did. More people equals more eyes. Come on." He walked out into this square, handgun gripped tightly and cocked. The others followed, taking out their weapons and readying them as well.

Alfred was so alert, he swore he could hear a beetle as it scurried across the asphalt a few feet away. His senses were enhanced by adrenaline. And to think he idolized these 'superpowers.' The rush of blood to his extremities and the stiffness of his muscles made him want to throw up with anxiety.

He stopped dead as he heard something coming from the other side of the fountain. It echoed around the square and bounced back to him, to the group.

"There's someone there." Ivan said.

Alfred was too highstrung to throw even the slightest glance over his shoulder at them. "Sounds like someone's crying."

"Crying?" Arthur wrinkled his nose. "What sort of git would cry in such an open location?"

"It's a trap." Kiku muttered, tugging on Alfred's shirt. "Don't do it, Alfred-san."

Kiku was especially perceptive. He knew what Alfred's intentions were just by the movement of the muscles in the American's back. He seemed to be relaxing.

"No," Alfred said with intrigue. "No… I don't think it's a trap." And he began walking toward the fountain.

Arthur raised his gun and cocked it, aiming it at Alfred. "Take another step and I'll make sure you'll need me to help you with walking."

But Alfred barely heard. He was listening to the crying. It sounded horrible. Long, drawn-out moans of despair. Gasping, hiccupping sobs. This was no trap. No one could fake crying that good—could force the air out of their lungs like they wished for it to be their last.

He kept walking.

Arthur knew he had threatened to shoot Alfred in the leg, but he lowered his gun. He couldn't do it. _Goddammit._ he cursed himself. _Still haven't changed after all these bloody years…_

But he _could_ follow Alfred. The git seemed too preoccupied listening to whatever fake crying there was coming from the fountain that he didn't even have his gun raised anymore.

He followed, and the rest of the group was not far behind. The crying grew louder as they got closer, and then abruptly stopped, as if the person crying had heard their approach. They immediately aimed their weapons, but there was no movement behind the statue the stranger was supposedly hidden behind.

"Let's ambush them." Gilbert suggested. "Be ready."

They all consented, and with a mouthed count to three, they all rounded the fountain and aimed at the figure laying behind the statue.

He was blond, shirtless and dirty, curled up in a tight ball. He began to sob as they stood there, watching him.

"Who are you?" Arthur asked firmly while the others looked around for signs of foul play. "Get up and let us see you. Don't try anything, or we'll shoot."

The man stopped crying, his sorrow dissolved to quivering whimpers, and then he gave an almost surprised gasp. The group tensed as the man unfurled himself from his position faster than they would have liked and stood on shaky legs, looking at them all. He was soaked and shivering. Tears were running down his face.

"Oh my God." he cried. "Oh my God, you found me."

And then Matthew was pushing through to the head of the group as everyone stood, mouths agape and eyes wide. The Canadian looked at the man, dropped to his knees, and said, his voice barely a whisper:

_"Papa?"_

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Things are starting to get complicated. Prumano problems, RusAme angst, and now... this FTW cliffhanger I just left you. IT WILL HAUNT YOUR DREAMS. o_elll


	49. Just a Little Late

**Not really much I can say but "Surprise!"  
**

Warning: Angst, talk of rape, violence.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Just a Little Late**

They stood in stiff silence for a few moments. Matthew's heart seemed to have stopped altogether and his sanity was hanging by a thread. He awaited the answer, his lungs screaming for air as he held his breath, all the while a chant rising in his mind of _It can't be, it can't be, you're going crazy, Mattie, you're dead, you've died in your sleep, this is just a sick joke, it's a mirage…_

Then the man gave a watery smile and said, "Oui _,_ Matthieu. It is your Papa." And he walked over, knelt, and embraced Matthew as tightly as he could. He started crying again. "I thought I would never see you again. Oh mon Dieu, mon petit lapin, you found me." The rest of his words were lost in sobs, and he pulled back to kiss Matthew's forehead, cheek, and nose.

But Matthew was in a stupor of sorts and he did not say anything as Francis continued to fawn over him, his expression stony. Everyone behind him watched with shock and were too stunned to say anything.

Francis noticed Matthew's silence and looked at him with concern. "Matthieu, mon douce, what is wrong? You found me, and I'll never leave again, I promise."

But Matthew took both of Francis's hands in his—and shoved them away from him.

Francis looked at him in disbelief. "Quoi? Matthieu, don't you—?"

"You're dead." Matthew said, standing. He was boiling with rage, and he didn't know why. "You're supposed to be dead, goddammit, _dead_!" Tears burned his eyes and he wiped them grudgingly away. "Stop teasing me, Francis. Just stop! Can't you see how hard it was for me to let you go? You don't belong here. You're dead. Go up into the sky or something. Just leave me alone!"

Francis shook his head and stood as well. "Non, non, I _am_ real, lapin, I am alive. I never died! You thought I died? Oh my God, Matthieu, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, _please_." He reached out to touch Matthew again, but the younger nation moved away and glared.

"Shut up! Stop lying. Stop trying to make me feel better. I know you died. I saw your body in the grave!" He was shaking with rage. How dare Francis come back to haunt him? What did he do to deserve it?

"That wasn't my body!" Francis countered, looking close to tears himself. "Please, believe me, lapin. I'm not dead. I'm alive. I've always been alive. I don't know who you buried, but it wasn't me."

"Don't call me that!" Matthew snapped and scrubbed at his eyes. His chest heaved in a sob. "Go away, just go away…"

"Mattie," Alfred said, deciding it was time that he speak up. "He's real. I can see him."

"Not you, too!" Matthew rounded on him. "Stop teasing me!"

"I'm not." Alfred said, hurt.

"We can all see him, Matthew-san." Kiku said with absolute calm. "He's alive."

Francis held his arms out. "Please, come here, Matthieu. I'm sorry that you thought I was dead. It must have been agony for you. Please, you can touch me. I'm not a ghost. See," He pressed his hand against the stone of the fountain. "It doesn't go through. I'm real. I'm solid."

Matthew calmed himself enough that he just stared for a moment, saying nothing. If this was only Francis's spirit, he wanted to take him in as much as he could before he disappeared. But if this was the _real_ Francis, if he was _alive_ …

He walked over and wrapped his arms around Francis. The Frenchman sniffed and cried softly as he did the same to Matthew, and they just held each other for a moment. Matthew could feel the warmth radiating off of Francis's skin. He could feel his lungs expanding with each quivering breath. He could feel his heart beating in his chest.

"You are alive…" Matthew muttered and began to cry as well. "Papa, you're alive!"

"Oui, Matthieu, oui…" Francis replied and kissed Matthew's ear before pulling back and rubbing at his eyes and running nose. "Ugh, look at me. I'm such a mess."

Arthur scoffed. "Now we know it's the real Francis. In the afterlife, I'm sure he would have looked a great deal cleaner." He meant it to be a joke, but it sounded more like he was telling himself that in reassurance. Francis was alive. Shit, what a miracle. The fucking prat. _I cried over you_. Arthur thought ashamedly. _I cried over you and you're not even gone yet, another win for you, frogbreath._ But he took solace in knowing that Francis's spirit hadn't seen him cry for him. That would have been embarrassing. It was all very joyful, but Arthur felt something inside him break. _You thought Francis was dead_. he mused. _And what if he was? What would have happened to you?_ Arthur would have liked to tell himself that he would have gone on just fine without the French git, but he knew he couldn't have. And that only managed to add to the roil that was going on inside his head.

Matthew was so overcome with emotion that he couldn't do anything but cry for a while. And Francis held him, murmuring soothing French, stroking his hair. Nobody spoke. Nobody wanted to break the fragile moment.

And then Matthew sniffed, looked up at Francis, and asked, "W-what happened?"

Francis peered down at him and shook his head. "Not here. We need to get out. The convicts I was with were talking about how they had contacted the Organization and how they were coming for us…"

"Right," Arthur said. "Let's fill our canteens and get the as far as we fucking can away from here."

* * *

They walked for miles, far away from the town. Alfred counted each step to make sure.

His anxiety was on high. Ever since Francis's return, Alfred felt as if it was all too good to be true—that, sooner or later, they were going to lose another group member, this time for good. And he was determined not to let that happen. They'd had a scare with both Francis and Sadiq now. He would feel like a failure if he let it happen again.

He was glad to see that Matthew was happy again. His brother was laughing and smiling at every word Francis said, even though most of it was corny bullshit. Although most of it was spoken in French, Alfred could tell from the tone that it was rather gushy. He glanced back over his shoulder at the pair and felt a mushy smile part his lips in spite of himself. Though he noticed that Matthew, however happy he appeared to be, kept glancing at the collar and chain that was wrapped around Francis's neck, hidden beneath the thick wool coat Matthew had packed and given to him to keep him warm. Everyone had noticed the collar, but they were all too scared to ask why or how it was there.

Lovino bumped into him. "Oops, sorry, man." Alfred muttered, but the Italian only grunted and righted himself before trundling off to the edge of the group. Alfred frowned after him. Lovino had been acting rather withdrawn lately. Normally, the Italian would be in the midst of the group to satisfy his sense of security, but he seemed now to be growing more distant by the day. Not even Feliciano seemed to be able to help. Feliciano stared worriedly after his brother, but didn't go over to him.

But what really worried Alfred was Arthur. The Briton seemed high-strung, if flinching at every crack of a twig and caw of a bird wasn't enough evidence. Every once in a while, Arthur would whip his head around, as if hearing a bear slashing its way up to him, scanning his eyes over all of them before clearly relaxing and turning back around.

He walked over and put a hand on Arthur's shoulder. His frown deepened when the older man flinched. "Everything all right, Artie?"

Arthur let out a breath. "Yes, everything is fine, Alfred."

The response was hollow, and Alfred wanted to ask Arthur more, but the statement was obviously dismissive. Sighing in defeat, he dropped to the back of the group again and found himself walking beside Ivan.

"You look tired." the Russian said, not turning his head.

Alfred laughed at that. "Yeah, well, we all look pretty fucked up."

"Nyet," Ivan said, his voice dropping. He didn't dare move closer to Alfred or even look at him for the risk of their relationship being found out. Ivan wouldn't mind the exposure, though. He wanted everyone to know. But Alfred's pride was still something to consider, and he didn't want to drive the American away when he had gotten this close. "I am meaning that you have been distant."

"Distant?" Alfred mumbled. He wasn't distant. Arthur and Lovino had been distant.

"Da, distant." Ivan replied.

Alfred came to a realization and sighed. "Ivan, I'm sorry for seeming that way to you. But Mattie needed me—"

"And you do not think that I need you as well?" Ivan asked. They met eyes for a moment and Alfred gave a flustered blush before looking away abruptly.

"I didn't think that—"

"Now Matvey is better." Ivan cut in. "We can… be together now, da?" It was a big step for Ivan. His heart had been thoroughly stomped on throughout the centuries and he didn't know if he could handle it if he was rejected now.

But Alfred gave a small smile. It was just a flicker of a smile, here one second, gone the next. "Yeah. I'd like that."

Ivan was internally embarrassed as his heart began to beat. It seemed so loud to his ears, which hadn't heard the muscle's sounds for a long while. Could anyone else hear it? It was beating loud enough…

He had a great yearning to kiss Alfred right then, in front of everybody, and he didn't care who saw. But Alfred's silence and downcast eyes reminded him that this had to stay their secret—for now.

"There are no other towns for miles." Wynston said, back to his normal, upbeat self. Francis wasn't dead because of him. And now he would be sure to make up for his mistake by leading them as deep into the wild, as far from the dangers of civilization, as possible. "We should rest."

The others consented and they quickly made camp. The sun was hanging low in the sky and the approaching night was sapping all of the warmth from the earth. When they had first formed their little group, it had been the end of summer. Now, they were in the thick of fall. The nights were getting longer and colder, and, pretty soon, it would snow. Feet of it. And then they would freeze.

Wynston was worrying over this, naturally. He knew how cold it could get during the winter in Wyoming, and without adequate clothing and shelter… they might as well shoot themselves in the foot because they were already half dead and it would take but a little to finish them off.

So, as they started a fire that night and huddled around it, sleeping bags wrapped around them to shield from the chill, the state said, "We'll freeze if we stay here much longer. We need ta head south. That's our only chance."

"We can only go so many miles a day." Arthur replied. "And we've already settled that we will not be visiting anymore towns except to stock up on supplies. We're on our own now."

The last statement seemed to ring through the air like a bell. Everyone brooded on that thought and how hard it would be to actually live up to it… or live through it at all.

"Wynston's right." Alfred said from his place beside Matthew. "We need to move south. Hell, people _died_ out here with the first move west. And when the snow rolled in… people fucking cannibalized each other (1). In the end, it was survival of the fittest. I don't want us to ever have to come to that. I don't want to turn into a goddamn animal…" Alfred swallowed dryly, recalling the man he'd beaten to death not but a few days ago. Would he have eaten him, too? He'd lost himself enough to pound the bastard into a pulp, who knew what would have happened if Arthur hadn't stopped him…? "We have to move fast. That's our only chance. We're approaching the plains. It's tough out there. No trees for miles, sometimes. Nothing but small mammals or bison to eat, and both take time and skill to catch. By now, the herds will be moving south… and everything else will go with them. If we don't follow, we'll starve. If we're going to live like animals, we're going to have to follow the rest."

Wynston exhaled heavily and ran a hand through his hair. "Jesus. I haven't lived like that for a century an' a half. An' with the herds so depleted, who knows if we'll come across any bison? They're so small in number… damn, I had Injuns helpin' me last time. An' afta so long… I don't know if I'll be able ta do it on my own."

"But you won't be doing it on your own." Arthur said. "We'll all learn. We'll have to. Sure, it's been near five or six centuries since I've lived a meager life. It's hard, that's all I can remember. But the British Empire didn't thrive on ignorance and languid demeanors. I'll learn. We'll all learn with time. It's amazing how much people can accomplish in dire circumstances. And we'll be the same."

There was silence. Then Arthur cleared his throat and looked at Francis. He didn't want to ask, but then again he had to know. Francis met his eyes, a flicker of fear passing behind them, as if he knew what he was going to be asked.

"Francis. What happened?"

Francis took a deep breath and shook his head. "Oh, Dieu, it was a miracle. Never had I been so aware of my very being as then, when my life could be snuffed out so easily, at any moment…"

* * *

_Francis closed his eyes as the gun cocked. He wanted to do more, but he could not. He knew it was over. He only wished that he could have told Arthur that he loved him. Then again, that would only make the Briton hurt more when he found Francis dead at the hands of his captors._

Matthew, my little one. Don't cry for me. I want you always to be happy…

_Peter pulled the trigger._

_And the gun jammed._

_"What…?" Peter was so surprised at the complication that he gave Francis time—precious time. And within that short moment, Francis realized that he didn't want to die. He didn't want to leave Matthew, who he loved so dearly who depended so much on him. He didn't want to leave Arthur, whom he hadn't yet had a chance to love._

_Determination sparked within him, more powerful than any drive he'd felt before. This wasn't for his country. He had none. This wasn't for his people. None were loyal to him now. This was for_ him _, Francis, and it seemed strangely more intimate now that he was the one who was being directly targeted._

_So, as Peter was fumbling with his gun and Jamal was scoffing at him for his lack of skill, Francis managed to wrench out of the grip of the men holding him. Before the convicts could come through their shock, Francis had taken up the chain attached to the collar around his neck in both hands, whipping it around in a wide, whistling arc. The men screeched as he slashed the chain along their chests, shoulders, and heads. Blood sprayed from broken noses and split lips._

_"Holy fuck!" Peter shouted, and Francis quickly smote him down with his chain-whip. Next, he turned to Jamal and swung the chain in his direction, the links rattling menacingly. There was fire in his eyes._

_These men had hurt him._

_And now he wanted to see their blood pool._

_Francis shook with a kind of morbid excitement. All the blood and violence… it was just like his revolution. The red coated his chain just as it had coated the blade of the guillotine as it went down, down, down, for hours, hours, hours._

_And he found it exciting. Vanquishing those he didn't like. Of course, he'd come to his senses afterwards, but there was no denying that this situation brought that urge back out in him._

_Oh, God. He was killing._

_And he didn't care._

_The little manic giggle that escaped him frightened him more than he could say as he struck down the convicts. Jamal, who had ducked out of the way of his chain many times now, ducked again and made a grab for him._

_But Francis dodged, dancing out of the way like the old days when he fought with not a chain, but a whetted cutlass._

_And then a hand gripped his shoulder, and just like that, his reverie was broken. He snapped out of it and then realized that he was still surrounded by many men. And now they looked severely_ pissed _._

_His chain dropped, and Francis turned on his heel, escaping from the man's grasp, his instincts taking over, fleeing for his life. The convicts followed, some stumbling and groaning from their injuries, shouting obscenities after him, pursuing him with overly loud feet._

_He ran to the woods, the only place he considered safe anymore. Towns were evil. Towns were a plague._

_Francis dove into the brush, fighting his way through, only realizing after five minutes of flight that his chain was rattling, drawing the convicts to him like foxhounds to the sent of the quarry._

_He had the sense to grab the chain to keep it from making noise and snagging him on the various bushes and underbrush. He could hear the men shouting behind him, but Francis was running, sprinting, his energy seeming endless._ Run, run, run. _was what his body was screaming at him._ Run back to Matthew, and Arthur, and the rest.

_But the convicts were gaining, although they seemed to have lost him, and Francis's strength began to wane. His heart throwing itself against his ribs, Francis's eyes darted around the ground until they locked on a thicket. He dove for it, thistles piercing his flesh and snagging his hair, taking out some of it, but that mattered little to him. He fought to keep his voice silent as he continued to force himself through the thicket, bleeding from the cuts he picked up along the way._

_And then he waited. It seemed like forever until he could see the convicts. There. Right_ there, _in front of him. And it seemed to Francis, as ridiculous as it sounded, that they could see him, like Francis was a bright beacon shining through the brush and, oh God, they would find him, they would…_

_But the convicts convened, cursed, and trudged off through the woods. Francis waited until dark, crouched in that thorny thicket, the insects sounding their night songs around him, moving beneath his feet, but Francis didn't care._

_Finally, he calmed himself enough to crawl out. He was cold, shivering, his sweat having cooled significantly against his skin. He was freezing, but he was only vaguely aware. He needed to get home. Home—the group._

_But how? He was lost. There was no way back…_

_Francis sat down in the dirt, shirtless, chilled, hopeless, and he felt something annoyingly grinding into his thigh…_

_Francis jumped, thinking it was some animal, and then realizing that it was something in his pants. Desperate, he clawed it out and raised it up to a stream of moonlight shining in through the trees._

_A compass. Arthur's compass. No,_ his _, compass now. He'd won it from him in a game betting who would survive or not. It seemed so far away now and so barbaric. How could they have played that game when life was too precious to place a price on?_

_East. That's where he needed to go. Because he remembered Wynston saying that they had to head west before they reached the town…_

_He stood, shivering, and guided himself in that direction. Examining the forest ahead of him, he swallowed and looked up at the moon. So beautiful and bright. Nothing could touch it._

_How ironic._

_Would he survive? He was so cold already…_

_But he didn't think about that as he followed the direction of the compass. His life depended on that compass. And it was because of the fact that it was Arthur's that Francis credited the maintenance of sanity._

_He walked for hours until he reached the town, after his bare torso was numb from the cold. He stepped out into the open, fearing the men would see him, but he was no longer by the old school. He was in the square. A fountain sat in the center, beckoning him._

_Francis walked toward it, the wind driving icy needles into his skin. Above him, the sky rumbled menacingly, its only warning before a crack of lightning illuminated the gray clouds and the stark buildings around the square, and rain began to fall._

_Francis knew that if he didn't find shelter, he would freeze to death. He willed his numb legs to move to the nearest shelter: a thrift store._

_He dove in and found a place beneath a rack of clothing, feeling safer with a curtain of cloth surrounding him. He pulled his legs up to him and studied the compass, the thing that had kept him alive. He thought about Arthur, not for the first time, and kissed it as if it were the Briton's own lips; soft and affectionate._

Please, _he begged._ Let me live. I've gotten so far. At least let me tell Matthieu and Arthur goodbye. At least let me see their faces again.

_He fell asleep like that, curled up in the cramped space. But his body was so exhausted, he could care less about the uncomfortable position. That and he was scared that the men were going to come in at any moment and find him unless he stayed hidden in the clothes._

_The warmth of the sun heating the clothing woke him, and he stayed in the rack for a while, warming his frigid body. He sniffled, his nose running, and sneezed. He looked at his hands. They were so pale, pricked with thistles, and shaking. He would have a cold before long. That sapped all the hope out of him._

I have to get back. _he thought determinedly._ I have to. I have to.

Before I die.

_He followed the route back to the house the others were at. The sun was centered in the sky—it was noon. When had it stopped raining?_

_Why did he care? At least it was warm._

_He reached the place, and, too tired to walk around to the back, he fell to his knees and rapped on the door. When no one moved inside the house, he knocked again._

_"C'est moi… Francis… mes amis… please…"_

_Nothing._

_His heart leapt into his throat and he forced himself to his feet, knocking louder. "Hello? Please, come outside. I'm back, please, come and get me. I don't think I can…"_

_Still, nothing._

_Francis forced himself to walk around the house to the back door. His hands steadied him against the wall as he moved along, weary and frightened that he may have been forgotten. He reached the door and stepped inside._

_Gone. They really were gone. They had left without him. They probably thought he was dead._

_Francis was angry at first. How could they assume him to be dead if they never came for him? How could they leave so soon? They barely even tried!_

_Francis felt numb as he continued back around the house and to the square again. Ten minutes passed, but he barely noticed. He sat on the fountain, staring at the woods. Yes, that's where they should have gone. They wouldn't stay in town after what had happened. They wouldn't stay in any town…_

_Tears sprung to Francis's eyes, and he didn't try to stop them. He let them come, let them slide down his cheeks as he choked out a sob. He was alone. All alone. The group had left him without even knowing he was still alive. And not even Arthur's compass could help him now._

_Oh God, Arthur. What was the Briton thinking? Was he sad that Francis was gone? No, probably not. He was probably rejoicing…_

_He laid down on the cold, wet stone, curling up and burying his face in his hands._ What a fool. _he mused._ What a fool you are, Francis. You thought you could live forever. What a goddamn fool.

_He couldn't escape death—not twice. The men were still looking around for him, he knew. And he cried as loudly as he goddamned pleased, because he would have his way before they came for him._

_No Matthew. No Arthur. No anybody. He was alone, and he'd given up. He almost wished the men would hurry to find him, to kill him, even though he knew they would do many more horrible things before they had the mercy to dispatch him…_

_And then he heard feet approaching. His fear came back to him along with all the terrible memories of the abuse. He broke out in shudders, not from the cold. He didn't want to be raped again. He didn't want those filthy men to touch him…_ Kill me. Please, dear God, just kill me.

 _Oh God. They were coming around the fountain. Francis squeezed his eyes shut and began crying again. They would take him, right here, the cold bastards. They didn't give a shit if he suffered. God, what had he done to deserve this?_ I'm sorry! I'm sorry!

_And then, "Who are you?"_

_Francis stopped crying. His heart almost stopped._

_"Get up and let us see you. Don't try anything, or we'll shoot."_

_No. No, it can't be. He was dying, and he was hearing what he wanted to hear. He was hearing Arthur's voice, and it sounded so beautiful to Francis's ears. Shaking, he unfurled himself and stood, turning to face him…_

_And found that the whole group was there, staring, mouths agape, at him. He was so shocked that all he could say was, "Oh my God. Oh my God, you found me."_

_Then Matthew came through and stared at him, eyes wide, dropping to his knees. "Papa?"_

_Francis began to cry again. "Oui, Matthieu. It is your Papa."_

* * *

Francis's throat grew scratchy, and he cleared it. "So… that is what happened." Francis left out everything he'd thought about Arthur, but telling it still made him feel exposed.

Everyone was quiet, taking it in. Arthur, especially. Francis had used his compass to find them. If Arthur had never given Francis that compass…

"We killed them all. You don't have to worry." Matthew said, then he added more quietly, "But you're not telling us everything." He felt guilty about asking this in front of everyone, and even asking him at all, but they were a team now, and in order to survive they needed to be honest with each other. "What did those men do to you, Francis? Why are you wearing that…?" He left the question hanging, the collar and chain so loathsome that he refused to address it. Who would do such a thing?

All eyes fell on Francis, but the Frenchman was shaking. He still had Matthew's coat on, but he didn't think he could tell them what happened. It had only been a few hours ago, and the scars were too fresh to talk about without painfully ripping them open. But he understood that he needed to get it off his chest. If he didn't, he felt as if he would become isolated. And, if anything, he didn't want to be separated from his group again.

So, he took a deep breath and, staring at the ground, said, "There was another captive there before me. A woman. She was chained up with this…" He lifted the chain. "She was dead. Had just died before I'd gotten there. The men said they'd used her… t-too much. They had worn her out. I think she was the one you mistook for me and buried."

Tears came to Matthew's eyes even though Francis had yet to fully answer his question. He knew what was coming, and he hoped to God it wasn't true. It was obvious that Francis was struggling to begin again, was just staring blankly down at the ground, hands shaking, his breathing ragged. Matthew took his hand and held it tightly. Francis gave a little sob and smiled weakly at the comfort he received from the touch.

"They said they needed a new one, a new… whore. They said they would use me… they stripped me down, I lost my shirt." His laugh was hollow and weak. "They took the collar off the woman and put it on me… a-and they took me right there, r-right next to her. I felt so sick… there were many of them. I don't remember how many, because I stopped counting. They used me from behind and there were some that didn't want to… th-they used my mouth. All of them had their turn. Sick bastards. They made me swallow…" Francis's throat contracted, and bile burned its way up from his stomach.

"No," Matthew cried and brought the back of Francis's hand to his lips.

But Francis pulled his hand back and stood, looking at them all. His face was pale and his eyes bloodshot. "Pardon-moi—I'm going to throw up." And he hurried off into the forest. But he didn't get far. They could hear the retching.

Matthew had dissolved into sobs, face in his hands. How could anyone be so heartless? Why hadn't they tried harder to rescue Francis? Why hadn't they gotten to him sooner?

"Mattie," Alfred muttered and moved over to him, reaching out.

Matthew raised his head and glared at him. "Don't touch me." he half-cried. "You were too late. Why were you too late?"

Alfred drew back and shook his head. "Mattie, it wasn't our fault. The rain—"

"Who gives a shit about the rain?" Matthew shouted, getting to his feet. "You were too fucking late, Alfred!" He glared at those who were in the rescue group. "Arthur, Kiku, Ivan. Too _fucking_ late!" And he marched off into the trees. His consoling voice could be heard, followed by more retching.

* * *

Translations:

Mon douce-My sweet

Quoi?-What?

References:

1-The Donner Party: A wagon train of 81 people heading across the west to California during 1846. Since maps of the American West were hardly accurate at that time, most hadn't a clue where they were going. As so, they usually took up with the natives (mostly ones befriended by the French fur traders) to direct them across the country. At one point, one native told them that they should probably hunker down and wait until winter blew over to journey any further, but (being the pretentious, Manifest-Destiny-supporting pioneers they were) the party decided to forgo the warnings and as a result found themselves trapped in the Sierra Nevadas by a large winter storm. The party (luckily) found some cabins and made camp, but food stores quickly ran out. So a group of 15 (very brave) people decided to attempt to reach California on snowshoes. But only seven of this party ever made it to any form of civilization and only because they cannibalized their dead companions. The first search party reached the rest of the encamped party in February of 1847, 10 months after the original party had set out, only to find 36 had succumbed to exposure, starvation, disease, and trauma. Most of the 45 survivors had also resorted to cannibalism. So, a lesson to everyone: if you don't know the lay of the land, listen to those who have been living there for hundreds of years and _do_ know before proceeding. Common sense or chewing on a Larry Popsicle. Your choice. (Hush, there's always a Larry!)

A Word From the Writer: _Winter is coming_. I'm sorry, I just had to say it. :3 Annnnyway, I know what you're thinking: "Why would you kill a character and make it all sad and then bring him back? What are you playing at, you cold bastard?" Think about it. I never said in my commentary that France had died. Sure, I talked a lot about death and how it added to the drama, blah, blah, blah. I did it for the feels, y'all. And I'm not gonna reveal everything now, but I will tell you that I have killed off two characters so far in my writing (and they're not my OCs). There will be a lot of close calls as well, just like this one. You think I'd let you relax? Pfft, yeah right!

And, wow, Canada blew up. Who knew he could have such a temper after being ignored for most of his life?


	50. Catch Me Falling

**Angst overload ahead. I do not take any responsibility for injuries from extreme feels!  
**

Warning: Angst (LOTS), paranoia, a frightening scenario, gore, RuseAme fluff, and tense Prumano.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Catch Me Falling**

Matthew slept with Francis. They took a tent after the Frenchman had thrown up all the food in his stomach… but it was worth it. At least the mens' cum was out of him.

Francis wanted to be close. And so did Matthew. The Canadian crawled into his sleeping bag and wrapped his arms around him. They were facing each other.

Francis couldn't stop staring at him. He gave a small smile. "You are so beautiful, Matthieu. Just like your Papa."

Matthew laughed softly in spite of himself and said, "Are you okay, Francis?" What a stupid question. He'd been raped by who knew how many men. Of course he wasn't! He rephrased the question, "Is there anything I can do to help you? I don't want you to lose whatever happiness you have left."

Francis sighed. "Just… stay close to me."

"I can do that."

Silence.

"Mon lapin?"

"Papa?"

"I'm sorry you thought I was dead."

Matthew huffed. "You don't have to say sorry, Francis. I already told you that."

"Je sais," Francis muttered, looking into his eyes. He ran his fingers through Matthew's hair. Oh God. If he could never do that again… "But I can't stand seeing you sad."

Matthew smiled and tears pushed their way to his eyes. He ran his fingers over the chain leading from Francis's neck. "God, I don't want to see this on you. I should have gone. I would have given them hell."

Francis smiled sadly. "It's not your fault, nor anyone else's. It was purely bad luck. You were unstable. It would have given me great terror to see you come to rescue me. I want you to be safe." Then he added, "And this chain does not hamper me. It is broken. I broke it for you. I wanted to see you again, petit. I wanted to see my little one again."

Matthew's eyes clouded with tears and he hugged Francis. "Je t'aime, Papa."

"Je t'aime aussi, mon lapin."

And they fell asleep like that, holding each other as tightly as they could. Or at least Matthew did. Francis was too afraid the convicts would wreak havoc in his unconscious mind.

* * *

Arthur, meanwhile, was bunking with Sadiq. Their tent mates had left them, and someone needed to be there to watch over Sadiq. Despite the Turk's denial, he was still sick.

"Did you take your medication?" Arthur asked as Sadiq inched gingerly into his sleeping bag. Even through the dark, his face was strained.

Sadiq scoffed. "Yeah, yeah, don't worry so much. And no bitching like you always do. I'm too tired for that shit."

"I do not bitch." Arthur flashed back, but Sadiq was already asleep—or ignoring him. So Arthur just lay there, staring up at the arc of the tent. Francis was back. The stubborn bastard hadn't died.

But what did that mean to him?

 _Nothing._ Arthur said firmly to himself. _Nothing at all._ He'd thought whatever he'd thought about Francis because he'd believed Francis had died. Francis was his… friend. Nothing more, nothing less.

But he still had trouble sleeping.

* * *

Ivan felt the sleeping bag move and a warm body leave his side. He opened his eyes.

"Alfred, nyet. Come back to bed."

Alfred tried to ignore the peculiar flutter his heart made at the last statement, and he stood. "I have to check on Artie. He didn't look so good when he went to bed…"

"Nyet," Ivan repeated, patting the empty side of the sleeping bag. "You can check on him in the morning. You will freeze. To bed."

Alfred looked at him and gave a frustrated sigh. "All right. But first thing tomorrow morning. At the crack of dawn." And he crawled back into the sleeping bag.

Ivan chuckled. "Ah, Alfred is suggesting that he will wake up before noon? What an accomplishment that would be."

Alfred smiled in spite of himself, looking at him. "Yeah, smartass. It's gonna happen."

Ivan's smile disappeared, and he felt that urge again. He leaned down, capturing Alfred's lips in a soft kiss. Alfred, though surprised, reciprocated with equal gentleness. It was such an intimate moment, something that Ivan needed now, that he lost himself in it.

But he needed more.

His hand trailed down to the waistband of Alfred's pants, slipping it in to stroke his thigh. Alfred moaned into his mouth. Encouraged, Ivan trailed his fingers around to the heat between the American's legs…

And then Alfred seemed to wake from a dream, flinching and drawing quickly back from him. Ivan withdrew his hand, hurt and disappointed. He had been so close! He was going to try again, but the look on Alfred's face convinced him otherwise.

"I-I'm sorry, Ivan." Alfred said awkwardly. "But… I've got a lot on my mind, ya know? And after that thing with Francis… it just doesn't seem…"

"Like the right time." Ivan finished for him. "I know. I'm sorry."

Alfred relaxed noticeably. "Thanks. And don't be sorry." He leaned over to kiss him on the lips again. Ivan savored every moment of it. "We'll get there, and I'm just as eager as you. But just not now."

Ivan tried not to look too disappointed, so he gave a soft smile. "I understand."

They lay like that, staring at the roof of the tent in awkward silence. But Ivan had something on his mind that he had to address. He turned to look at Alfred and pulled him close. When Alfred moved his head to meet his eyes, Ivan kissed him on his chapped lips.

"What happened to Francis," Ivan began, staring seriously at Alfred. "I never want that to happen to you. I will never let that happen to you. And I will kill anyone who would even consider it."

Alfred just stared, not knowing what to say. It seemed strangely intimate, Ivan promising to kill for him. Though Alfred rightly knew it shouldn't come across that way, he was still moved by the words.

"I will do the same." Alfred replied, running his fingers through Ivan's ash-blond hair. The softness of it comforted him.

"Nyet," Ivan grabbed his wrist and lowered it. "You will not play hero. I have seen you piss the wrong people off and the consequences because of it. I will not have you put yourself in harm's way for me."

Alfred was embarrassed when he felt tears burn his eyes. But he couldn't tear his eyes away from Ivan's. He'd never seen him so sincere. "I've always wanted you to say that." Alfred muttered, surprised at himself. He was the hero, no one else. Especially not a former commie. But he began to realize how exhausted he was. Being a hero was hard, even for him. And in times like these, he could do with a break. But, until now, there had been no one willing or good enough by his standards to take his place.

And now Ivan was telling him everything was going to be okay. That he would take care of him. Alfred had never let anyone take care of him before. Not after Artie. He did it all himself and now…

He realized that he didn't have to do it alone.

Alfred scoffed at himself as tears ran down his cheeks, and he wiped at them, sniffing. "S-stupid. Dumbass tears…"

"Tears take away the pain, da?" Ivan said, leaning in to kiss them off his cheeks. Alfred's breath hitched, and he swore his heart skipped a beat. He hadn't expected the Russian to be so sweet.

When Ivan pulled back, looking at him deeply and affectionately, Alfred couldn't keep the words from spilling from his mouth: "You don't know how much I want you."

Ivan chuckled as Alfred's face heated up and smiled. "I do know, Alfred." _I've been wanting you this whole time._

Alfred scoffed again and kissed him on the mouth, fingers once again threading through his hair. And he realized, _Oh my God. I don't want to die. Not now. Not when we've just gotten so close. I don't want to leave you, Ivan._ The reality of death was so stark now that Francis had miraculously returned from it, after Alfred had seen Matthew break down and become a hollow shell of a human being. Would Ivan do the same if Alfred died and never returned? Would Matthew and Arthur and everyone else who gave two shits about him walk around like souls in purgatory after he was gone? And it would be all his fault, _everything_ was his fault. No different now.

He snuffled and gave a half-laughing sob. "Mattie's mad at me. He's _pissed_." He looked up at Ivan, tears sliding down his cheeks with burning conviction. "I did it. Mattie's my brother, and I did it. I should have tried harder. I should have tried—"

Ivan shushed him and pulled him to his chest. "Matvey did not mean it. You know that. Go to sleep."

It wasn't exactly the most comfortable position (with Alfred's nose pressed into Ivan's chest), but it made Alfred feel safe and loved.

And his tired mind didn't need anymore encouragement to retire than that.

* * *

_Arthur opened his eyes._

_And he immediately sat up. He was in a field. No sight of trees, shrub, sky, anything. Just an endless expanse of dry, stubby yellow grass. He looked up at the sky—or rather where the sky rightfully_ should _be, but it was empty, hollow, gray. Dread filled him immediately, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. He was dreaming again. And just like his others, this one would be a nightmare. And judging from the pattern of his dreams of late, it would be a great deal worse than those that came before it._

_He was almost afraid to look down. But he did. And he deeply regretted it._

_His heart pounded wildly in his chest, and he felt all the blood drain from his limbs._

_"Oh my God, no."_

_Strewn around him in all sorts of grotesque positions, were his group. All lying motionless, pale, limbs twisted—like marionettes with their strings cut. The sight made all the breath go from him and tears spill from his eyes._

_"No," he said firmly. "No, it's just a dream. My dream. I can change it. I want them alive. Oh God, I need them alive." He closed his eyes, imagining the faces of the nations in his mind; happy, bright, living. But as soon as he got the picture in his head, it slipped away, turning to water between the groping fingers of his memory. And then all went dark in his head, and he couldn't open his eyes._

_He was blind._

_No, was trapped in his own head. Yes, that was it. Like that was any better than not being able to see…_

_And then he_ could _see. It was like watching an old tape slide of what he perceived to be memories, zooming by until they slowed and he could make out what was happening._

_It was him. He had a wild look in his eyes. His other self was standing over the sleeping body of Matthew. He raised a knife, plunging it into the sleeping bag. Blood sprayed and pooled, covered the blade, his face. What could only be Matthew's voice rose in a rasping, watery scream—an animalistic deflating balloon. And Arthur's twin turned to face him, a smile stretched on his face. A manic giggle spilled from his lips. Arthur couldn't breathe, his stomach roiling, as the tape sped up, and the murders continued, flying by speedily. All Arthur could see were the bodies and the bright red of their blood._

_"No," Arthur screamed. "No! No! Stop it, goddammit! Stop!" He dug his fingers into his scalp and shook his head, gritting his teeth. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. "I'm in control! This is my mind,_ mine _!"_

_"Arthur,"_

_Arthur turned and looked across the expanse of his mind to an illuminating light in the vast darkness. And he dropped to his knees and stared._

_"Br-Britannia?"_

_Britannia, his beautiful mother, held out her arms, beckoning. "Come here, my darling. Come to me."_

_Arthur forgot his fear and anger and he surged forward, hugging her tightly. Her soft, golden curls stretched down to his nose, tickling it slightly. After all these years, he was still shorter than her. But that didn't matter. His mother was here, and he loved her, and she would always keep him safe, always, she'd promised him…_

_"Oh, my little one." Britannia cooed in her comforting voice that felt like silk to Arthur's ears. "You're shaking, Arthur. Why are you so frightened, my love?"_

_Arthur was about to explain when he felt something cold, wet, and wormlike slide over his ear. Confused, he looked up and screamed._

_Britannia was barely recognizable. A black tongue snaked out of her mouth, covering his face with slime. Her eyes were large, like an owl's, her cheekbones pronounced. Gray, melting skin stretched over her face, her nose peeling back to reveal the bone. She smiled as Arthur screamed and squirmed in her grasp, spiderlike hands digging claws into his flesh. She withdrew her tongue, hid it behind her sharp teeth, each one chiseled to a deadly point._

_"Why are you so frightened, Arthur, my love?" Britannia's voice was a hiss. "Don't be frightened, Mother is here, Mother will make it better."_

_Arthur pushed her, kicked out, tried to get away. His stomach turned over when some of her melting skin spilled onto his chest. Her face was nothing but bone now._

_"Let Mother show you what you want to see."_

_And then he opened his eyes on the field again. For a moment, he was relieved… and then he peered down at his hand. In it was a knife, and it was covered with blood. All of him was covered in blood. Beside him, the limp body of Alfred lay, his entrails strewn across the ground._

_"Oh, oh, Christ," Arthur felt like he would retch._

_"Look at you, love." Britannia's voice was nowhere and everywhere at once. Inside his head, outside, flooding through him. "I am so happy you have found such a talent. Something you_ love _."_

_"Sick," Arthur said, flinging the knife away from him. He stood, staring down at the body, and then looked up to see the bodies piling up. Kiku, Francis, Matthew, Ivan, Sadiq, Feliciano…_

_"Sick," Arthur repeated. "Fucking sick! Oh Jesus, oh God…" Tears wound their way down his face as his stomach did somersaults._

_And then he was holding the knife again, and he shrieked with its reappearance. It was absolutely dripping with blood. No,_ flowing _with it. Blood was pouring from the blade, onto his clothes, shoes, everywhere._

 _"You love it, darling, my_ love _." Britannia hissed. "Now it's your turn."_

_And his hand raised on its own. "What? Wait, stop!" The blade was at his throat in seconds._

_"Don't be frightened, little one." Britannia cooed in her sickly-sweet voice. "It will be such a release… you love it. You know you do. You love to kill, Arthur. You like seeing red."_

_"No!" Arthur screamed, feeling the tip of the blade puncture him. "I don't! I never!"_

_"Oh, but you do." He could feel the spider fingers on his shoulders, trailing down to his front. The tongue returned, swiping over his face, jabbing into his ear, picking his brain. "You let those boys die. Your crew, you watched them drown. You let your brothers die. Didn't I tell you to be nice to each other, Arthur, my love? Didn't I tell you to play nice?_

_"Now it's your turn. Join the others. Let go, my darling. Let go." she hissed._

_Arthur's scream turned to strained gurgles as the blade cut into his throat, all the way to his spine. Blood poured out of his mouth like a grotesque, bubbling waterfall._

_Britannia laughed—a high ringing sound that crackled in the air. She licked up stray drops of blood from Arthur's face._

_"Such a good boy. Always my good boy._

_"You will kill them all for Mother, won't you? My darling, my love, my sweet Arthur."_

Arthur kicked himself awake.

He opened his eyes and lay there, breaths heavy and heart pounding against his ribs. His whole body was shaking and he was covered with sweat. He lay there for a few minutes, struggling to calm himself down, staring at the tent roof. Finally, he found the will to move his head, though he was afraid of what he might see.

But it was only Sadiq, lying still and unconscious in his sleeping bag. He took a deep, shaky breath and looked up at the top of the tent again.

"What's wrong with me?" he asked quietly, tears flooding his eyes. "God, Mother, I miss you. I miss everyone." He cried and felt guilty. Guilty that he had portrayed his mother as such a horrible creature in his dreams. His dreams. The things he was supposed to control.

He lay there, crying quietly for some time before he felt his eyes sag with sleep. But he snapped them open. He couldn't fall asleep again. No, he couldn't. Because if he fell asleep, who knew what he would dream about?

But he _needed_ sleep. The nightmares had been keeping him up, and for the past two days, Arthur had not slept for fear of the dreams or waking up to see everyone murdered by some psychotic maniac. And now his strength was waning because of it. He needed to be alert for his group. He needed to be strong for his group.

And then it came to him. He flew from his sleeping bag like a bat out of hell, rifling through his backpack and hoping to God he still had it. And then he found it. The dreamcatcher.

He slipped back into his sleepingbag. Sure, its powers might not exist, but then again, everyone had told him that magic wasn't real, and Arthur still used it. Perhaps this was real. It wasn't magic, but Arthur could feel some sort of energy pulse from it as he cradled it close to his chest. It warmed his hands, and he felt sleepier.

Within moments, he was fast asleep.

* * *

Gilbert couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he thought of Lovino, and how sleeping with him had betrayed Antonio.

He couldn't rest without answers. He needed to know why Lovino was avoiding him, why he had even wanted the sex. He made sure Ludwig was asleep before venturing out into the frigid night air. His breath misted in front of him as he made his way over to the Italies' tent.

He unzipped the flap and crawled inside as quietly as he could. Both of them were sleeping. It almost made him jealous and angry. How could Lovino be sleeping so soundly with what had happened between them, with how he had turned his back on Antonio? The Spaniard deserved better.

He moved over to Lovino and put a hand on his shoulder. Lovino cracked open his eyes, blinking groggily before feeling his hand and opening his mouth in what could only be in preparation for a shocked shout. But Gilbert quickly moved his hand from Lovino's shoulder, to his mouth. Lovino grumbled beneath the hand, his voice muffled, glaring.

"It's me," Gilbert whispered, and Lovino relaxed a bit, though his glare was just as fierce. "We need to talk. Outside?"

Lovino continued to glare at him and then sighed, nodding. Gilbert released his mouth and crawled out of the tent as Lovino tugged on a coat and then followed him out.

Gilbert was almost ashamed to look at Lovino, but he forced himself to. He had to resolve this. He had to make Lovino see how wrong it was, what happened between them.

"What the hell's going on?" he began, trying to keep his temper in check. "What was that back at the house? What about Toni? Don't you have a speck of loyalty in you?"

Lovino glared at him, and Gilbert stiffened. It looked like Lovino could punch him. "Loyalty? _Loyalty_? Who the fuck are you to talk to me about loyalty? You don't know anything about Toni and me! _Nothing_!"

Gilbert shushed him, and Lovino wanted to pound his face in. How could he not understand? "You don't know anything." Lovino repeated, though it was hard to keep his voice low. "You don't know what it's like to lose a lover. You think you do, but you don't. You don't know what it does to your mind. It's torture." His voice dropped as well as his gaze. "Torture. I thought about Toni every day after he died. Every _fucking_ day. I thought about his face, his touch, his voice… and then I thought about the blood. How I saw his fucking brains smeared on the road, how I could have done something if I wouldn't have run. Sometimes I wonder why a goddamn coward like me was allowed to live and not Toni. Do you know how hard that is to live with?"

Gilbert was silent, speechless.

Lovino continued, "Soon it was just his death. I was seeing that shit every day, reliving it in my dreams. It haunted me, Gilbert. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Toni's dead face, and it ripped my fucking heart out. So _you_ tell me why I did it. Fucking tell me why I wanted to sleep with you. Do you think I _want_ to go on feeling the way I do about Toni and not being able to fucking touch him or talk to him or just _see_ him? Do you think I _like_ knowing that I could have saved him, that I could have at least fucking _tried_?"

Gilbert was at a loss for words. He didn't know, how could he know, he didn't—

"You want to forget him." he realized. "How could you? Toni fucking _loved_ you! And you want to throw all your memories about him away like you never even knew him?"

This time, Lovino did punch him. Right in the nose. Blood poured down Gilbert's chin.

"You still don't _fucking_ get it, do you, you goddamn bastard?!" Lovino's hissed voice seemed even more threatening than a shout. "He's fucking plaguing my mind. I can't just fucking sit around and grieve for him all the goddamn fucking time! I love him. Fuck, I love him. But his death is eating at my mind, and soon I'll go crazy… the only way to solve it, to fucking get rid of it, was to move on. And the only way I could do that was to fuck you."

Gilbert blinked in realization. "So… I'm a tool."

Lovino's fierce look suddenly disappeared. "No, you fucking helped me—"

"You don't have to explain." Gilbert cut him off, holding his bleeding nose. "I see how it fucking is. You want to get rid of your pain so badly that you're willing to give someone else grief. I see how it works." Gilbert began to walk back to his tent, furious.

"You don't fucking get it!" Lovino called after him. "You don't know what it's fucking like to have your heart ripped to pieces!"

Gilbert didn't turn back, only replied, "Ja, Lovino. I think I do."

He could feel Lovino's eyes on him as he disappeared into his tent.

* * *

Translations:

Je t'aime aussi-I love you, too

A Word From the Writer: So, lots of stuff going on here. Canada coping with the fact that France was raped and he hadn't been able to do anything to prevent it, Russia wanting to be closer to America (i.e. he wants buttsecks) but the events that unfolded and America's pride block the way, Prussia trying to interpret his feelings for Romano, Romano realizing he's an asshole (you know, a bigger one than before, especially since he's hurt another asshole), and England having doubts about his true relationship with France and... some freaky nightmares going on. All the good stuff summed up and these are bound to make for some good plot, I can tell you. I'm not gonna go in depth, but I will tell you to pay attention to England's dreams. I used Britannia and gore for a reason, and it's not just paranoia.

And Romano finally got up the courage to punch someone! Unfortunately for him it was really the wrong time. Poor guy. :'(


	51. Too Many Walls

**Ladies and gentlemen, I present smutty Canada.  
**

Warning: Angst, tension, a little smut, drug use, shotgunning, mentioned masturbation.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Too Many Walls  
**

Matthew opened his eyes, scared that everything that happened yesterday was all a dream. Francis was dead, he'd just wanted him to be alive. He was so crazy with grief that he'd made up a fake scenario in his head of Francis returning…

But no. Francis was there, eyes closed, breathing shallow, arms wrapped around him…

With that goddamned collar and chain around his neck.

Matthew started to cry despite his want not to wake Francis. The Frenchman needed rest, but the collar, what it meant…

Francis's eyes flickered open at the sound of Matthew's quiet sobs. His heart ached. He'd seen his little one cry too much lately. He reached out and ran his fingers through Matthew's hair. "What is it, mon petit? Do not cry."

Matthew's eyes went to the collar. "I hate seeing that on you. I _hate_ it." And he dissolved to tears again.

"Oh, mon chou." Francis said, pulling Matthew to him. "It will be off soon. We can ask Ivan for help. I don't want it on either." Francis was in disbelief as well. Only a night ago, he'd been wandering around the woods, violated, lost, abandoned. And now he was in a tent with Matthew's arms around him. It seemed surreal.

 _Should_ he be dead? He was certainly close to it. If Matthew and Arthur hadn't given him the strength to fight back, if Peter's gun hadn't jammed…

No. He would never come that close to death again. For the Matthew's sake, he would not. It all seemed rigged in his mind, how he survived. Whatever the reason, he thanked God that he had been given a second chance. Maybe it was for the best. Maybe he still had things he had to do.

The sounds of tent flaps unzipping reached their ears and Francis said, "Come on. We should get up before Arthur becomes impatient."

Matthew laughed and wiped at his eyes, sniffing a little. "Y-yeah, we probably should…"

Within minutes, they were standing in the camp, waiting for the other nations to get up. It was awkward, being among them all and remembering what happened yesterday. Whenever Matthew so much as glanced at someone, they would quickly look away as if they were afraid of offending him. Well, Matthew figured, it was only expected. After his break down the night before, it was only natural that they all felt uncomfortable around him.

But the most uncomfortable of all was Alfred. He stood there, hands in his pockets, staring at the ground. He had stayed true to his word and gotten up before everyone else to check on Arthur, though he could barely get but a handful of vague and distant replies out of the man that only managed to deepen his concern. Everyone who got out of their tents looked at him in surprise for being one of the first ones up, and that didn't count Matthew out. Occasionally, he lifted his head to look at the Canadian, and when their eyes met, he looked back at the ground again. Matthew felt a pang of guilt. He hadn't meant to make Alfred feel guilty about what had happened to Francis. After a good night's rest and thinking how lucky it was that Francis was still alive, Matthew had come to his senses. At the moment, it'd felt right to yell at Alfred and everyone else who'd promised to rescue Francis. It had felt right to make them hurt. It was only fair, as Francis had been hurt, though a great deal worse. But now Matthew was realizing that he couldn't push them away. They all needed to be close in order to survive this. And Matthew especially didn't want Alfred to think that he hated him.

But Matthew couldn't tell him that. At least not now. The real focus of today was to get as far away from civilization as possible. And Arthur was readying himself to speak.

"So," the Briton began, unsure of where to start. Even after he had taken to holding the dream catcher the night before, the nightmare still left him incredibly drained and dejected. It seemed that the responsibility as leader had been thrust upon him, but at the same time his own mind was working against him. But that was no excuse. Silly nightmares were never an excuse to not do what had to be done. "We are a few miles from the town, but that doesn't guarantee that we are out of harm's way. Wynston has told me that the plains are our safest bet at the moment, and if we linger here too long we may be stuck out there with the snow and nothing else to keep us company. Whatever it takes, we must reach the south by November. It is currently the first week of October. We have a couple of weeks. I have discussed it with Wynston, and he says the best way for us to go is east and then south. That being said, we will angle west toward Nebraska, going southwest through Kansas to reach the Mississippi. We will then follow the river down to where it empties into the ocean in Louisiana. There we can stay until winter blows over."

"Wait a second." Alfred said. "What about those fuckers at the capital? Are we just gonna let them sit there and keep sending more guys after us? For months?" Sure, Alfred had expressed a great need to flee to the south the day before, but after mulling it over he had convinced himself that this issue needed to be resolved as quickly as possible. That and he was incredibly impatient.

Arthur blinked at him, noticing his change in opinion but not feeling up to addressing it. Instead he sighed. "Alfred, our priority at the moment is to stay alive and together. That means getting out of the cold."

Alfred glared. "So, staying alive and together doesn't tie in at all with overthrowing the bastards who wanna kill us?"

Arthur frowned. "Alfred, we haven't even planned that far ahe—"

"There's no need for planning!" Alfred snapped. "We've wandered around and let the Organization torment us for too long. Look at what happened to Francis. Next time, it could be anyone, and they might not be so lucky as to return."

"I will not let you subject this group to your need for vengeance, Alfred." Arthur snapped.

"But it's not just _my_ vengeance!" Alfred shouted, hands now out of his pockets and balled into fists. "And it's not just my capital. The Organization represents every usurper in every country. If we get rid of this one, then maybe we can—"

"You never _think_ , Alfred!" Arthur barked sharply. "You are rushing into things you haven't even planned all the goddamn time, and, so help me, I will _not_ let everyone else be thrown into danger to satisfy your need for justice!"

"We've been in danger this whole fucking time!" Alfred growled. "Open your fucking eyes, Art! If we go with your plan, then I guarantee you not one of us will even make it close to Louisiana!"

"You haven't even considered—"

"No, _you_ haven't considered!" Alfred flashed back. "Don't you understand? If we go south, we'll be warm, yes, but at what cost? The Organization knows how powerful our influences can be, and they'll hunt us down like foxhounds! We've had too many encounters with them to declare that we can outrun them. You heard Higgins! They have eyes everywhere. There is no hiding."

Arthur was seething, but he fought to keep his voice calm. "Alfred," he said through clenched teeth. "What makes you think it will be any safer going _directly_ into the capital without any plan whatsoever or any idea how big a force this Organization has?"

"We have time. Weeks. We can plan on the run."

Arthur blinked at him, and his anger finally boiled over. "You have learned _nothing_! You're so selfish, Alfred. I can't believe you'd risk all our lives to kill just one of these men. You know what I think? If you want it so much, why don't you just do it on your own?"

Alfred blinked in shock and Arthur processed his words. "Alfred, I didn't mean—"

"No, I know what you mean." Alfred said. "I'm the problem. I should just leave so I won't bother you."

Ivan was alarmed at this. Had Alfred forgotten about him? Would he just leave without the person who'd said they loved him? But he watched as Alfred ducked into his tent, bringing out his backpack and slinging it over his shoulder. He opened his mouth to convince Alfred to stay, but Matthew beat him to it.

"No," he said, darting forward. "Don't leave, Al. He didn't mean it."

"What do _you_ want?" Alfred asked with spite. "To blame me for something else? Well, you don't have to worry about that anymore, 'cause I'm tired of taking all the crap. You guys are hopeless. We can't just run around the problem. But if everyone else is going to do that, fine. I'll just have to take care of it myself. You can thank me later."

"No, Alfred, _please_." Matthew snagged his brother's sleeve, but Alfred jerked out of his grip. The Canadian's eyes filled with tears. "I'm sorry, Al. It's not your fault what happened to Francis. I was stupid. I didn't know what I was saying, and I'm sorry it hurt you. But you can't leave. I just got Francis back!"

"Pa," Wynston muttered. "I understand what you're sayin', but… we have our own worries. Please, let's just tend to the group first an' discuss it before goin' headlong inta somethin', 'kay? If you wanna go, I'll go with ya. But I won't be happy that you're leavin' everyone else behind. We all have a purpose in this group. We depend on each other."

Alfred stared at him, completely ignoring Matthew, and sighed. "Wynston, I don't want you to come with me."

Wynston shook his head. "Ya know ya can't get rida me that easy, old man."

Alfred took a deep breath and exhaled. "Fine. I'll stay. Only because I know you'll follow me."

Wynston smiled. "We'll talk about it, Pa. I'll make sure of it."

"Yeah, right." Alfred said skeptically, setting his backpack down. Matthew was still looking at him, still beside him, but the American ignored him. It hurt Matthew more than he could say. He hated being ignored. It made him feel worthless.

Arthur found his voice. "Alfred, I'm so sorry—"

"We're wasting time." Alfred said rather bitterly.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Right. So, er, let's have a quick breakfast and move on. We're heading south." Then he added after some thought. "And when we make camp next, we'll discuss retaking the capital."

* * *

They had a small meal of canned fruit before abandoning the camp. Although the immediate problems had been somewhat dissolved, the tension between them was still palpable.

No one talked, and when they did, it was in whispers shared between two people. They had been growing more and more quiet throughout the last few days, and Arthur didn't like it. The less they talked, the less they had frivolous conversation, the more they became isolated from each other and more focused on their own hurts. Everyone seemed to be dealing with their own issues: Arthur with his nightmares and the huge responsibility for the group's welfare; Alfred with his burning need for vengeance, his internal clock ticking ever more loudly for him to act, and his mental struggle over protecting his children or putting himself in harm's way to protect his group while putting the lives of his children in danger; Francis with his rape and near-death experience; Matthew with Alfred ignoring him and his instability that had been brought about with Francis's supposed death; Ivan with Alfred pushing him away subconsciously even though he wanted so much for them to be close; Ludwig with being the rock for his brother and Feliciano; Kiku with his doubt about his abilities to keep everyone safe; Yao with his worry that they all may not be prepared for what was coming, that they would die soon no matter how much they knew and there was little to nothing they could do about it; Gilbert with being used and rejected by Lovino and his betrayal of Antonio; Lovino with his toil over his dead lover and a new one he did not want to admit to; Sadiq with his injury and fear of illness again; Feliciano with his constant fear and worry, with his brother refusing to talk to him about his troubles; Wynston with the weight of leading the group through his state without trouble, without leading them to another safehouse that was anything but, and still quietly mourning over the loss of his sister. Everyone was in their own little world of torment, and by refusing to share or discuss their problems with everyone else, they were beginning to fall apart.

Like puzzle pieces that become lost over time.

Still, no matter how much it annoyed Arthur and made everyone else uncomfortable, no one broke the unannounced 'code of silence.' They trudged on through the forest, and whenever they came upon a town, they stopped, regrouped, and changed directions. They avoided towns like the plague.

Francis's mind was a roil. The convicts. The rape. The sound of the gun going off next to his ear, yet still being alive. The sight of Matthew so broken when he returned. It was all whirling around in his head, and he wished he could talk to someone, anyone, just make simple conversation so that he could forget about it all. But no one was willing to talk. It was so quiet, and it was driving him mad.

A voice next to his ear, startled him. "I didn't get a chance to tell you how happy I am that you're alive."

Francis turned to see Gilbert, walking alongside him with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ground. The Frenchman smiled. "I am, too."

"How's your neck doing? Still unawesome?"

Francis reached up and rubbed the spot where his collar had been before Kiku had picked the lock. There were obvious red rings of raw skin where he had struggled against the metal. But he was fine with it. All that mattered was that he didn't have the disgusting restraint around him any longer, that at least something from his traumatic experience was gone, no matter if he still had the horrible, recurring memories to remind him. "Ouais. But I can live with it. I mean, I almost didn't at all."

Gilbert swallowed dryly. "Ja…"

And just like that, their conversation was through, Gilbert slowly drifting away from him to walk beside his brother.

* * *

They didn't see much along their hike except for a few startled deer and a couple of chattering squirrels who chased each other through the trees, scattering leaves and other debris over their heads.

They reached the edge of the treeline just before sunset. After this small copse of trees which Wynston instructed them to make camp beneath, there would be nothing before them but flat, open grassland.

 _So,_ Francis mused. _we have arrived at the prairie. Never have I felt more apprehension about anything with a name derived from my language._

They made a fire and set up camp, all speaking as little as possible to each other. It wasn't that they didn't want to, but not knowing how. What _could_ they talk about? Oh, hey, at least no one died today. Yeah, that would make for good conversation.

Soon, they were all seated around the fire, keeping close to each other to conserve warmth. It had to be at least fourteen degrees farenheit. Thank God they had all thought to prepare for months on the run. They had ample winter wear, but it was too light to protect from constant exposure to wind and snow. The heavy clothes would not have fit in their packs.

They ate again, going through the cans they had managed to pack in silence. When they were finished, they just sat there, wrapped up in their sleeping bags, staring myopically at the fire.

Arthur couldn't take the silence and cleared his throat. Everyone jumped. "Er, so, the Organization…" When no one said anything, he looked at Alfred. "I presume you have a plan?"

Alfred nodded and pulled his sleeping bag more tightly around him. "Yeah… thinking we should snag one of their members or cohorts or whatever and force the information out of them. We don't know how big the Organization is, but we know that they're big enough to broadcast over a radio and that they have enough power behind them to be a governmental body. And navigating through the capital would be risky. All open space… they are bound to have scouts everywhere. But who knows where their HQ is? They could be in the White House, but judging from their hatred for the old government, I don't think they would take that up as their roost."

"But we will have to go to cities to find the members." Kiku said.

"No. We won't have to." Alfred said grimly. "They'll find us. They're bound to find us sometime."

The words settled into them like ice through their veins, and no one said a word for a long time.

They watched the sun set through the trees and the stars come out. Without so much as 'goodnight', they all eventually made their ways back to their tents. Except for Alfred. Ivan watched worriedly as he wandered off through the trees, but he felt better when he saw that Matthew was going off to join him. Perhaps the brothers would talk and make up? The Russian hoped so, because he wanted Alfred to stop worrying about everything and come back to him.

Matthew noticed Alfred going off into the woods and followed. He was determined to let Alfred know that he was sorry. He didn't think he could get that through to the American's brain if everyone else was around. Alfred always put up barriers when other people were around, but alone… what he was really feeling inside could be coaxed out.

He found Alfred sitting in a little clearing, staring up at the moon. He didn't notice Matthew until he was standing right behind him. The American startled and whipped his head around… only to scoff and go back to looking at the moon. "Not now, Mattie. I just wanna be alone and think."

"Then let me think with you. You don't have to be alone, Al." And Matthew sat down next to Alfred. The American gave an annoyed huff.

"Al," Matthew said after a while. "You know I'm sorry, right?"

Alfred sighed. "Not this shit again. You already said that."

"I know, but I don't know if you accepted my apology."

Alfred was silent for a moment, and Matthew chewed his bottom lip. Then he said, "Yeah, Mattie. You know I can't stay mad at you for long."

Matthew chuckled a bit, then said, longing to talk to someone about his troubles, "I could barely sleep last night."

"Me neither. Though I doubt anyone got a good night's sleep judging by their eyes. Bloodshot or sunken, most of them." Then he added curiously and with some concern, "Why'd you have trouble?"

Matthew took a deep breath. "Francis. I was near him the whole night, but I kept dreaming that he'd died. I kept reliving his burial." He looked at Alfred. "I never want to see him buried again, Al. I don't want to see any of us buried."

Alfred met his eyes. "He was never truly buried, Mattie."

"I didn't know that for a good two days. And it did something to me. That breakdown I had… yeah, well, I don't even think I scratched the surface of how far my grief could go. If something were to happen, something bad, then I would…" He paused to swallow. "I don't know what I would do, Al. And it scares me."

Alfred put an arm around Matthew's waist, pulling him close. "I won't let anything happen to you. I promise."

Matthew smiled at the security and sighed. "I just… I'm really uptight right now. I think… I think that if I smoked some pot, I would relax a bit more. Get some sleep." He looked at Alfred. "I saw you had some. I smoked all mine in a panic before fleeing my country."

Alfred chuckled and searched his pockets. "I was wondering when you'd hit me up about that… now that I think about it, I need some, too." He produced a pack from his pocket and slipped two rolls out, handing one to Matthew. He lit his with a lighter, and Matthew kissed his end to Alfred's to light his own. They were silent as they took the first few pulls, enjoying how the weed cleared their minds of worry and doubt.

Sure, Alfred had claimed he hated smoking… and drugs. But that seemed ages ago, and now he just needed something to calm his frayed nerves. Yeah, just something soothing. They weren't getting high or anything, just blowing off some steam. Alfred kept telling himself that as he raised the toke to his lips and inhaled.

And then Alfred was laughing.

"What is it, eh?"

"Heh, nothin'. Just remembering how I puked when I first did this."

"Puked? Jesus, Al, what did you do, make a weed milkshake?"

"Milkshake? Nah… I made a cake."

"No," Matthew said in disbelief. Imagining Alfred baking was one thing, but Alfred baking a _weed cake_? He hardly knew why Alfred always bothered him about smoking the stuff if he went to such extremes himself.

"Yup." He took another drag and exhaled through his nose. "It had weed frosting, too. And… hehe, get this… Artie was coming over and I didn't want him to have any, 'cause you know how nosy he is about the stuff in my fridge, nagging me over my weight and all, pshh… so, I fuckin' ate all of it in ten minutes!"

"Al, that's not healthy…"

"Do I _look_ like I care about that shit?"

Matthew chuckled and sighed. The high he was getting was almost sensual. "Never have, and I doubt you ever will."

"Got that shit right."

Matthew didn't know what made him say it, nor did he care. "You know, I haven't had stoned sex in a while."

Alfred smirked. "What are you implying?"

"Oh, I'm implying?" Matthew said mischievously. "Forgive me, allow me to be forward." He pushed Alfred down onto the grass, toke still balanced between his fingers. Like hell he was going to waste that wondrous little piece of heaven. Alfred's eyes narrowed as Matthew straddled him.

"Oh, well this is a surprise."

"Are you complaining?" Matthew smirked as he took another pull of his joint and bent down to kiss Alfred. They exchanged the smoke, Alfred inhaling it before breathing it out slowly. The American felt his mind go dizzy for a second.

"Whoa, dude, that was just… wow."

Matthew smiled at the compliment. "Just don't puke, eh? I'm not nearly finished yet." And he kissed his way down Alfred's neck. Oh God, he'd truly missed the feel of Alfred's skin. It had been so long… but there was a nagging in the back of his head, something telling him that he shouldn't be doing this. His mind was too muddled to explore why, so he continued, sucking at the junction between Alfred's neck and collarbone. Alfred squirmed below him, and Matthew could feel something hard and hot pressing into his thigh.

"Mmm, someone feels excited." Matthew's hand trailed down to snake into Alfred's pants and underwear. But as soon as his fingers brushed against Alfred's swelling cock, the American jerked and wriggled away from him. Startled, Matthew pulled his hand out, falling back onto the grass and dropping his toke. "Fuck," he muttered, hurrying to snuff the flame before it spread to the grass. He looked up at Alfred, who was standing, having disposed of his own joint. He was breathing hard and looking ashamed.

"Al, what the hell—?"

"I'm sorry, Mattie." Alfred said quickly before rushing off back to camp.

Matthew grumbled in aggravation to himself. He could really do with a good fucking. But then he remembered the reason why he couldn't have sex with Alfred. That time at the 'safehouse' when Matthew had been listening secretly…

Oh shit. Ivan.

Thank God Alfred had stopped him when he did, or else Ivan would have surely found out (in whatever way he did, because the Russian always knew), and Matthew would be nothing but a pile of dust.

Pain pulsed from his crotch. Great. Blueballs. He couldn't go back to his tent and jerk off. Sadiq would hear him and he'd have quite a mess to clean.

Matthew sighed. "Guess stoned masturbation will have to do." And he slid his hand into his pants.

* * *

Translations:

 _Mon petit-_ My little one

 _Mon chou_ -My darling

A Word From the Writer: Ah, damn. No sexy Canada jerking off? Well, shit. As much as I love writing solos, unless it involves bonding or drama or action or death, I'm gonna skip over it (as much as a regret it). And, yeah, I was originally planning on this story being much longer with the plot revolving around their journey to the south and back up to D.C. But I figured it wouldn't make much sense if the world was sinking deeper into shit every day (that and I got bored), so we are now facing winter. Thankfully, there will be no white walkers to deal with. I'm sorry. I'm such a Game of Thrones geek.

"Too Many Walls." Yeah, right. Try a bigass fucking wall with all sorts of crazy shit on the other side. _Then_ you'd want a wall. *shot*


	52. Give

**Prepare to cry from purely beautiful fluff.  
**

Warning: Lemon, fluff (not telling who), character death, masturbation, angst.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Give**

Arthur was curled up in his sleeping bag with the dream catcher against his chest when he felt something move next to him.

"Francis?"

"Oui?"

"I thought we previously discussed this. This is _my_ side of the tent and that side over there is _your_ side."

Francis sighed. "I cannot sleep."

"What for?"

"Bad memories."

Arthur stiffened, feeling like an asshole. "I'm sorry, Francis."

"No need. But I just wish…" Francis felt tears flooding his eyes. "I wish I still didn't feel them… _in_ me." And he started to openly sob.

Arthur was at a loss of what to do. He had never been in a position where Francis had come to him for help. Well… maybe once with that marriage proposal thing, but he wasn't having a complete mental breakdown then.

Arthur sighed and turned over. Francis had his face in his hands. For the first time in Arthur's life, he felt sorry for Francis.

"Francis,"

The man stopped crying a little and took his hands from his face. It was red and his eyes were hazy with tears. He sniffed. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I just… I'm sorry for disturbing you. You should rest—"

"No," Arthur said, looking at him. "I'm sorry for what they did to you. No one deserves that." Then he added with a bit of hesitation. "If there's anything I can do to help…"

Francis blinked at him, surprised to hear Arthur offering him help. Tears pulled at his eyes again. "I can still feel them… each and every one of them." He gave a sob. "I don't want to feel it anymore, Arthur. I can't stand it. I don't think I can… I can…" He calmed himself, taking a deep breath before continuing, "It's better during the day. I don't think about it as much. But at night… when I sleep, I remember. It's as clear in my mind as when it happened… everything… I feel everything… it hurts, I hate it, I hate it." He lost himself in his tears again, miserable.

Arthur felt his heart break for Francis. His sobs were hollow and desperate… the cries of a broken man. He took Francis's hands in his and held them, knowing he would have wanted someone to do the same for him if he was in a similar state.

"What do you want me to do, Francis?"

Francis sniffed and took a few more deep breaths before staring directly at him and saying, "Arthur, I don't want to feel them anymore. I need something else… I want to feel something else. Something that won't hurt me when I remember…" His eyes stung, fearing rejection. He couldn't sleep like this. He feared that he would go crazy with the memories. His voice caught in his throat, and he hoped Arthur could understand what he was asking of him.

It took a few moments for Arthur to process Francis's words, but when he did, he came to only one, unbelievable conclusion. "You… you want me to… fuck you?"

Francis winced at the term. "No, not that. They said that all the time… that's all they did, there was no…" He shook his head and squeezed Arthur's hands. "Non, Arthur, I want you to make love to me." Arthur's heart started to pound. Francis, who had always boasted about being the best in bed, was wanting Arthur to make love to _him_? "Please. Take the filth away, Arthur. I… I don't think I can ask anyone else… they wouldn't think it right to… please, Arthur, I don't want to feel it anymore. I don't want to feel it!"

He began to cry again. He knew Arthur would reject him. Arthur hated him. Arthur had _always_ hated him. There was no way he would _ever_ …

Arthur wriggled out of his sleeping bag and slipped into Francis's. The Frenchman's breath caught as Arthur straddled him.

"W-what? Arthur, you're—"

"Making love to you?" the Briton replied, still getting over the initial shock of the words. "Yes,"

Arthur didn't think what Francis wanted was such a big deal. Arthur was topping, and it seemed right that Francis should want this. And it was only fair that Arthur give it him, he'd been through so much. They did, after all, share a tent. There were other reasons, too, reasons Arthur wasn't yet ready to acknowledge, so he banished the thoughts by pressing his lips to Francis's.

Francis felt his heart skip a beat, and he kissed back, parting his lips to let Arthur's tongue slip in. Fingers threaded through his hair, drawing him close, and Francis was afraid to touch Arthur, afraid that all of this may be some cruel illusion fabricated by his turbulent mind.

But it wasn't fake. It was happening, and Francis could scarcely believe it. His hands trailed up until his arms were wrapped around Arthur's neck.

The Briton's lips moved from Francis's mouth to his neck, gently teasing the skin there, trying to avoid the scars left from the collar. As Francis squirmed and moaned beneath him, Arthur felt his cock slowly harden. He needed this. Just as much as Francis. All of the stress about leading the group and the nightmares… he needed a release, and Francis offered it.

Arthur's hands trailed up Francis's sweater (well, technically Matthew's), and Francis lifted his arms so that it could be pulled off of him. The Briton pulled back to examine Francis's chest, and he felt his stomach roil.

The Frenchman's torso was covered in scars and bruises ranging in color from dark blue to a sickly yellow. Arthur could see the imprint of hands, little crescent-shaped scars that were fingernails digging into flesh. Small circles of burnt skin dotted Francis's chest.

"Christ, Francis," Arthur breathed, brushing a thumb over one of the burns. Francis bit his lip and grunted. _Jesus, they put cigarettes out on him._ He shook his head. "My God, why didn't you—?"

"I didn't want anyone to worry." Francis replied. "I'm fine, really. They are not that bad…"

"But they are, Francis." Arthur insisted, guilt coiling in his gut. "I'm so sorry. Matthew was right. We should have gotten there sooner. Maybe then this would never have—"

Francis brought his hands up to hold Arthur's face. "None of this is your fault, cher. It was an unfortunate event that no one was expecting. I do not want anyone to take the blame for what happened to me. Especially you."

Arthur blinked. "Why me?" The question was barely a whisper, but Arthur already knew what the answer would be.

Francis smiled a little. "Parce-que je t'aime, Arthur. J'ai depuis longtemps, mais tu lui n'as pas vu."

Arthur felt his face grow hot as he translated. He ran the words through his brain many times, not believing what he was hearing, but the words came out the same every time he did so: _Because I love you, Arthur. I have for a long time, but you have not seen it._

He stared, his words stuck in his throat, his heart hammering in his chest. Below him, Francis was afraid that he had said too much, that Arthur would stop and reject him. He couldn't stand that, not now, not when he had poured his heart out and Arthur was this close.

"Please," Francis said, holding out his arms. "Please, Arthur."

Arthur felt his heart go out to Francis, and he bent down into his arms. They wrapped around his shoulders, and Arthur's lips were against Francis's scarred neck.

"Non, j'ai lui vu." Francis stiffened in surprise as Arthur muttered French into his ear. "Mais je ne voulais pas y croire."

"Pourquoi?" Francis whispered, scarcely believing his ears.

Arthur chuckled. "Je suis anglais."

Francis smiled. Then Arthur drew back and stared at him. "Are you sure you want this? It might be too soon…"

"Non," Francis snapped, bringing Arthur's face close to his own. "You have made me wait long enough, cher. Don't you dare make me wait any longer."

Arthur gave him a little smile and kissed him again. The disbelief at what he was doing was gone. All he knew was that Francis needed him, and he would do everything in his power to make him forget his horrendous experience.

Arthur's fingers trailed lightly down Francis's body, being sure to avoid the fresh injuries and to be gentle when he touched him. He didn't think anyone with so many hurts could feel pleasure from touching, so he was surprised when Francis emitted a content sigh. He took that as encouragement to move lower, and he bit his lip when he hooked his fingers into Francis's pants.

"Do it," Francis breathed, and Arthur pushed down the Frenchman's pants and underwear. His fingers brushed over Francis's heated erection. Below him, Francis moaned. Arthur then pulled Francis shirt over his head. He sat back, looking over his nude body. Sure, he had seen it before, but now… now he was looking at it with other plans in mind.

He took off his own shirt and shrugged out of his pants and underwear. He then stretched out over Francis, his breath hitching as their skin touched with a burst of heat. Francis's arms went around him. Fingers dug into his skin as Francis rolled his hips against him. Arthur felt his own cock swell.

His lips brushed against Francis's ear. "Preparation?"

"Non," Francis replied, pulling Arthur close to him so that they lay chest-to-chest. He needed them to be as close as possible. He craved the security he felt when Arthur's skin was pressing against his own. "Non, I do not need it."

Arthur pulled back, balancing on his elbows, giving him a worried look. "But… Francis, it will hurt." He spat in his hand, lubing his cock, not caring what Francis said. He wanted there to be at least _some_ level of comfort.

Francis gave him a sad smile. "Nothing I haven't already felt, cher."

Arthur felt tears tug at his eyes. Francis's expression was so forlorn, his eyes so… _empty_. God, it really had been his fault. Arthur was supposed to be leading the group. And he led them right into a trap, that fucking safehouse… He was determined not to let Francis see him cry. He didn't deserve to cry in front of Francis like something was hurting him when Francis had been hurt more than he could even fathom. He buried his face in Francis's neck and fought to keep his voice steady.

"Oh, Francis, I'm sorry." He lined himself up and pushed in, feeling sick. He was no better than those men who had fucked Francis so cruelly without pause or care for his well-being…

But Francis clung to him, though, and that was enough for Arthur to keep going. "Non, non, cher. Don't be, ah, sorry…"

Arthur didn't respond, too caught up in feeling Francis's torn insides against his cock. And, suddenly, he was rethinking this. It didn't feel right to subject Francis to this while his wounds were still raw and the memories still fresh. But Francis wouldn't let him go, his fingers digging into his skin, and he was moaning his name as he slid home, "Arthur… oh, Angleterre…"

"Francis," Arthur murmured, kissing him gently and stilling inside him. "Are you okay?"

"Oui," Francis replied, moving his hips against him. "And I am ready. Please, move."

Arthur took a deep breath and did so, trying not to feel disgusted with himself as he pulled out and pushed back in. Francis let out a soft moan below him, though Arthur could tell the man was trying to hide his discomfort. "Francis, we don't have to do this. Not now… later…"

"No!" Francis hissed, hugging Arthur tightly to him. "I won't bear it if we stop now. Please, Arthur, don't leave me." _Don't leave me like I thought you did._ Francis bit his lip. Nails dug into Arthur's skin.

Arthur felt an urge to hold Francis, and he did. He wrapped his arms around him, pulling Francis up so that he sat on his lap. He hugged Francis close to him, face in his shoulder. "I would never leave you like this, Francis." Then he added more quietly, "But I don't want to hurt you."

"You could never hurt me, amour." Francis assured. "I need this… I don't care if it rips me apart, I can't stand the feel of them anymore. I need this, please…"

Arthur began to move. Francis clawed at Arthur's back, pain and pleasure surging through him at once and moans falling from his lips. Arthur kept going, despite how horrible it made him feel, but he wanted Francis to feel better, and that was all that mattered to him at the moment.

It hurt him. Arthur hurt him, and it made Francis feel sick. He hated those men who did this to him. Who'd tore him up inside so that it hurt when Arthur made love to him. They took everything. It wasn't fair. But Francis was determined to get something back, so he rolled his hips in rhythm with Arthur's thrusts, bouncing on his lap, nose buried in Arthur's hair, taking in the scent of the man he loved so that he knew it hurt for a reason.

Arthur was giving him back what security had been taken from him.

Arthur's hand moved between them, stroking Francis's cock to hardness and more. Hot tears were rolling down Francis's face with the pain, but he came, and he came because of Arthur, and that was enough for him. And when Arthur started to move away from him, wanting to pull out, Francis held onto him for dear life and said, "N-no, Arthur. Please, wash it away. I want it all gone, _please_." Then he added, his voice barely a whisper, "I want you and only you, Arthur."

Arthur felt tears spring to his eyes and with one last thrust, he filled Francis with his essence. "Francis," He held the man tightly to him. Oh God. Had it taken this long, what had happened to Francis, for Arthur to realize that he couldn't live without him?

Arthur laid Francis gently down in the sleeping bag and pulled out of him. He hovered over him, kissing him. "I love you, Francis." It surprised him that the words didn't sound at all foreign.

Francis smiled happily and gave a soft sob. "I know, cher."

And they fell asleep like that, intertwined body and soul.

* * *

_She was breathing hard. She had been running for hours on end, trying to lose her persuers. But it was gradually coming to light that her efforts were useless. The men kept catching up, and now they almost had her._

_But she refused to go down without a fight. This was_ her _nation, and hell if she was just going to roll over and expose her belly to the enemy without so much as a challenge._

_She couldn't run anymore. Her strength was waning and her legs were cramping. Pretty soon, she wouldn't be able to even move. She had been on the run for five days straight. No sleep. No rest. Barely any food and water. She was dying, but she refused to believe it._

_So she sat there, crouched behind an overflowing dumpster, hoping that its foul stench would drive away the men chasing her. But it was no use. The men rounded the corner of the alley and walked slowly down it, eyes searching every crevice for her, guns cocked in their hands._

_"Where are you, you persistent little bitch?"_

_"Yeah, aren't you tired? Come out so that we can put you to sleep for good."_

_She smiled in satisfaction as the moon lit up one of the men's faces; a long red scar crossed from his forehead, across his nose, and to his jaw—a little gift she had given him when he'd last had her cornered. But she had no knife now. She'd lost it in her haste when the men had ambushed her back at her safehouse._

_The men were almost u[on her, and it became clear in her mind that this time she wouldn't be able to fight them. She was too weak. The thought sickened and ashamed her, and she quickly stood, the men shouting out as she threw open a nearby door and darted into it. A bullet nicked the wood as she pulled it shut behind her. She would have loved to lock it but the bolt was rusted and fell right off as soon as she touched it. So she turned on her heel and ran up the stairs._

_She was halfway up when the door burst open, making her stumble in surprise, the men charging through and taking a moment to look around before spotting her and rushing to follow her._

_"Stop right there, bitch!" one man yelled, and when she didn't, he shot._

_She gave a gasping grunt and heaved forward, colliding with the steps. She groaned in pain as she clutched her bleeding thigh, knocking her head on a wooden stair. The men ran up to her and pointed their weapons down at her. When it became clear that she was too busy dealing with her injury to respond, one snatched her up by her hair and pulled her so that her face was inches from his. She could smell his sour breath, see the ragged skin of his scar._

_"Tell us where they are."_

_She glared at him. The man tugged harshly on her hair before repeating, "Tell us where they are, bitch!"_

_Her only response was spitting a glob of bloody saliva onto his face._

_The man fumed and pistol whipped her. She bit her lip in two trying not to cry out as she felt blood pour down the side of her face and she fell on the stairs again. She wouldn't give these bastards the satisfaction of hearing her scream and beg._

_"Now," the man said, pressing the barrel of his gun to her forehead. "Are you gonna tell us, or should we convince you some more?"_

_She laughed. It was a hysterical laugh, a maniacal laugh, a laugh that scared the shit out of her. The laugh of a dead woman. "You bastards think you're gonna get anything out of me? Fuck that!" Then she added in a deadly tone, glaring at them with all her might. "You won't get a word out of me. Do whatever you like, but I'm not telling shit to you."_

_The other man looked at the one holding the gun to her head. "What're we gonna do with her?"_

_"She'll be too much of a nuisance to take captive."_

_"But, Boss said that he doesn't want them—"_

_"I don't care what the goddamn boss says!" He looked back at the girl. "Let's get rid of her."_

_The other man looked shocked and frightful. "B-but what're we going to tell Boss?"_

_"Tell 'im we found her dead."_

_"And what about her body?"_

_"The dogs got to her before we could." Then he smirked down at her. "You gave us a good run, girl. I would say that we had a good time, but then again I don't compliment scum. Any last words?"_

_Knowing that her death was near, the girl lifted her chin and smiled. Blood turned her teeth a grotesque red from her bleeding lip._

_"_ _I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country."_

_No sign of recognition passed behind the gunman's eyes, and the girl almost pitied him as a bullet ripped through her skull._

* * *

Alfred woke up, screaming.

Ivan's eyes snapped open and he sat up, looking around in shock. Alfred had crawled out of their sleeping bag and was curled up in a ball on the other side of the tent, clutching his chest and gasping. Panicked, the Russian rushed over, grabbing hold of him.

"Alfred? What is wrong?"

But Alfred pushed him away, whimpering and yelping in pain. His fingers dug into his chest, as if trying to rip it open. Horrified, Ivan took hold of Alfred's wrist and pulled. It took a while and a great deal of strength, but the hand eventually came free.

Ivan's stomach turned over. Blood oozed out of a deep cut just above Alfred's heart. Ivan wanted to examine it more, but Alfred's hands darted to it again and he thrashed about so much that Ivan had to move away or risk being kicked.

"It hurts!" Alfred shrieked. "It hurts! It hurts!"

"Alfred, be still!" Ivan said, diving in and pinning his legs down. He straddled the man's abdomen, catching his arms and holding them down. Alfred's head snapped side to side. His eyes were glazed over, wide like a startled horse's, and Ivan feared that he had lost touch with reality.

"Alfred!" Ivan shouted, but the man did not respond, still trying to get out from under him. "Alfred! Stop moving! Look at me!"

"What the bloody hell's going on in there?" Arthur fumed, having just risen to wake everyone else. The Russian had better not be molesting Alfred or he'd kick his arse no matter how intimidating he was. Francis followed him as he unzipped the tent and was met with the sight of Ivan sitting on Alfred, holding him down, the Russian looking near to hysteria.

"Alfred," Ivan said again and shook the man. He ignored the others' stares as more gathered round to watch. "Alfred,"

And then Alfred's eyes flickered shut.

Arthur gave a startled cry and crawled in. When he saw the blood on Alfred's chest, he looked up at Ivan.

"What happened? Is he still alive?" _Oh God, is the git still alive?_

He would have accused Ivan of doing this to Alfred if it weren't for the Russian's eyes reflecting the same panic within his own. "Da, he's still breathing. But… I-I do not know. I woke up to him screaming and there was blood everywhere. I think he's hurt himself…"

"What?" Arthur could scarcely believe it. Alfred would never hurt himself… would he? He bit his lip.

"Alfred," Arthur said, trying to keep his voice steady as he shook the inert man. "Yank?"

And then Alfred's eyes cracked open. "A-Artie?"

Arthur breathed a sigh of relief. "Yes… thank God."

Alfred opened his eyes and looked around. "What the hell…?" Then his gaze fell on Ivan. "Why the fuck are you sitting on me?"

"You were thrashing about."

"Well, I'm not now, so could you get off? You're kinda crushing me."

Ivan did so and Alfred sat up. "What ha—ow, what the hell?" He looked down and saw the blood spread on the chest. "Fuck! Whoa, I'm bleeding."

"Nice observation, git." Arthur said, though he couldn't quite make his voice as sarcastic what with the relief at Alfred's well-being. "Lay back, I'm going to get some bandages." And he practically trampled Francis on his way out.

Matthew crawled in in his place. "A-Al? Are you all right?"

"Yeah… sorta, I mean," Alfred shook his head. "I dunno. I remember having this freaky ass dream…"

Matthew bit his lip as he examined his wound. "Al, you didn't…?"

Alfred filled in the rest for himself and glared. "Fuck no! Why the hell would I want to claw my chest out? If I wanted to kill myself, I'd go for my wrists or neck, and I most certainly wouldn't use just my hands!" Though Matthew didn't find it reassuring that Alfred didn't outright deny the fact that he would ever attempt to kill himself, he remained silent.

Arthur returned and began to wrap Alfred's wound. The American sucked air through his teeth as he felt it sting at a touch.

"Sorry," Arthur apologized. "It'll hurt a bit… Alfred, you said you had a dream?"

Alfred scrunched up his nose, trying to remember. "Yeah, I… oh shit."

"What?" Arthur gave him a worried look.

"If I didn't do this, and Ivan didn't, then…" His eyes filled with tears. "Oh Jesus, guys. It's just like Marge and my shoulder."

Matthew's eyes widened. "You mean… you think one of your states died?"

" _Think_?" Alfred asked incredulously. "This fucking hurt. I _know_." Then he added with shock. "And… I don't think that was a dream I had. I think… I was seeing it happen."

"Who was it?" Arthur urged. "Do you know?"

"Pa!"

Alfred's head snapped around as he heard Wynston calling for him. The state raced across the camp and shouldered his way inside the tent. His eyes were wide as he examined Alfred. "Shit, Pa, what happened? Ah, jeez, I shouldn't have been out scouting…"

Everyone looked at Alfred, knowing his answer would devastate Wynston.

Alfred looked at him and shook his head. "Winnie, she's gone."

Wynston's eyes widened. "Who?" His voice took on a tremor. "Is it one of my sisters?"

Alfred nodded. "I think so."

Wynston's eyes filled with tears. "Wh-who? Do you know?"

"She gave them a run." Alfred began, wiping his eyes with the heel of his palm. "I saw everything through her eyes… she was running from them. Had been for weeks. She was… starving, tired… but she didn't want to give up, she didn't want to roll over. They caught her and asked her where _they_ were. They… that must mean the other states. She wouldn't tell them. They… they shot her and hit her and she wouldn't tell. And then she said…" Alfred squinted his eyes shut as he tried to remember. "That quote… from Hale… Nathan Hale, yeah, I think (1)."

Wynston's began to shake. "Connor?"

"No," Alfred said. "No, not Connecticut." He recalled how the state had loved the quote. "It was one of your sisters… and she was strong and brave." He smiled a bit. "She gave one of the men a nasty cut across his face."

"What did she sound like?" Wynston urged, though his voice was small. He didn't want to know the answer, but at the same time, he _had_ to.

Alfred swallowed as he struggled to remember. Then he let out a sob. "Oh God, it's… it's P-Pen, Penny. It's Penny. I know it. It h-has to be." He put his face in his hands and cried.

Wynston crawled over and hugged Alfred, burying his face in Alfred's shoulder, chest heaving.

Arthur felt his heart speed up. "Wait a second… Penny? You mean, Penelope? Pennsylvania?"

Alfred nodded, unable to respond. After Marge, he couldn't believe how much it hurt. He'd thought that Marge's death would have prepared him for this, but… it only managed to make it worse. He didn't care about the blood still oozing from his wound. For all he knew, he deserved it. He let this world become dangerous for his children, and now he was paying for it.

Arthur just sat there and stared, unable to do anything but struggle not to cry himself. Marge had been different. He hadn't known her. Not like he knew the Thirteen. And he had treated the Thirteen like his own children, that was until they had all sided with Alfred and worked to betray him. The blow was still no less crushing, though, and Arthur could scarcely believe it was Penny, of all states. Penny, the strong one. Penny, the smart one. Penny, who never gave up no matter how many times Arthur had threatened her. Penny, the leader of her northeastern brothers and sisters. It seemed impossible that she should be dead, but then again, what more proof did they need other than the mysterious scar on Alfred's chest?

Then Arthur found his voice and looked around at all the others who were gathered around the tent in a suffocating manner. "Give him some space, will you? Go!"

The others hesitated before dispersing. Beside him, Francis made to leave, but Arthur grabbed hold of his wrist and said, "No, stay. I just…" He couldn't form the words and he held Francis's hand in his, squeezing it. He needed someone to be his rock right now, and it seemed silly that it be Francis for all he went through, but the Frenchman understood and remained where he was, squeezing back.

Matthew sat and watched as Wynston and Alfred cried and felt helpless. He looked at Ivan and found the same feeling behind his eyes. He kept staring at the Russian. _I know you love him, Ivan. It's so obvious. But Alfred doesn't know how much. You need to show him. Show him before he forgets about you completely._

Ivan blinked at him, seeming to understand what Matthew was trying to convey through his gaze. But the Russian shook his head and Matthew understood. He wasn't ready. Alfred wasn't ready.

So they both sat and watched as Alfred tried to recover. But Alfred didn't fully want to. He felt like he needed to suffer. That he needed to grieve for Penny or else he wasn't truly honoring her memory. If he didn't cry, he'd feel guilty that he wasn't so sad.

Finally, Alfred decided that he had cried enough. Anger took over his grief and he swallowed his sobs, taking his hands from his face. "We need to get to the capital, Artie."

Arthur stiffened at Alfred's tone. It was stony—stonier than he'd ever heard it. And it scared him. "Alfred…"

"No. We can't go to the south." Alfred said, staring at the side of the tent. "It's only been a few weeks and already two of my states are gone." Then he looked at Arthur. "A few weeks. Imagine waiting a whole _season_ , Artie. I can't do it. I'll go insane. We need to stop them."

Arthur's heart dropped. He'd thought he'd already come to a compromise about this subject, but apparently not. "Alfred, I understand your urgency, but we have others to think about—"

"What are we doing, Art?" Alfred asked, ignoring him. "What are we doing out here?"

"Surviving, trying to get by—"

"We're _running_ , Artie." Alfred said. "We can't run. We're nations."

Arthur shook his head, and he loathed the words coming out of his mouth. "But we're not nations anymore, Alfred."

"Who the fuck cares?" Alfred flashed, and Arthur blinked at his ferocity. "That's just a title. But we still have _jobs._ What about all those people out there who are relying on us to set things right? Do you think they have time to wait? How many people do you think will die so that we can stay warm for a few months?"

Arthur stared at him, mouth agape. He didn't know what to say. For once, Alfred had rendered him speechless. It was true. All of it. And the fact that Arthur was realizing this now, after he had been so determined to lead them south, was making him doubt his leadership. It frustrated him that Alfred of all people realized this long before he had, had to actually _tell_ him. He sighed and said, "You're right, Alfred. We will not achieve anything by running away. Whatever it takes, we _will_ end this. Too many people are looking to us to make it happen."

And so a new plan was enacted, Arthur gathering everyone around to listen. He shot down any and all objections, calling the protestors cowards or heartless. After this, no one dared suggest anything that deviated from the new plan.

* * *

The new plan: Go through Kansas and Nebraska, but do not follow the Mississippi down. Instead, they would angle toward Lake Michigan and navigate the Great Lakes by boat to Lake Erie. Then, if they managed to get that far, go southeast until they reached the Potomac River. Depending on how crowded the area was, they would either sneak through the city or navigate the river into D.C. From there, they would attempt to overthrow the Organization, though, they realized, they needed a much stronger force to help them. They needed the loyals, but they could not risk going into any big city or town to seek them out until they were incredibly close to the capital or else risk being found out by the Organization. That part of their plan was based purely on luck.

Gilbert wanted to call the plan "Operation Awesome", but Sadiq suggested it be called "Operation Trojan" after a Greek war of the same name, a little nod to Heracles whom Sadiq said, despite being a gigantic pain in the ass, had been a formidable opponent and deserved some form of respect. After that, Sadiq's face went red and he shut up for a while, though Gilbert complained until Ivan threatened (with his sickly-sweet smile) to reenact the Prussian's earlier fainting spell with his pipe.

"Ve~I think the name's perfect." Feliciano said. "They took what was ours, and they won't know what's hit them. Just like the story!"

After finding out that another one of his sisters was dead, Wynston told Alfred that he was going to take a walk through the woods for a little while. Alfred was worried and insisted that Wynston stay close, but Wynston refused and wandered off.

Alfred watched him go and was about to follow him secretly, but Matthew put a hand on his shoulder and said, "Not a good idea, Al. You know how Wynston likes to be alone sometimes. Let him cope."

"All my fucking fault." Alfred muttered, and before Matthew could say anything, Alfred walked away. Matthew didn't want to bring up any sensitive stuff or start a fight now. Not after just getting Alfred's trust back.

Sadiq watched Matthew stare worriedly after Alfred as his brother ducked into his tent to pack up. A blush trailed across his cheeks as the Canadian met his eyes for a moment before he marched off to his own tent to do the same. Sadiq's eyes followed him, and he swallowed. Did Matthew notice? Did he suspect?

Last night, Sadiq had limped out to take a leak (and to find out where the fuck Matthew had gotten off to, because his ankle hurt like hell and he needed more drugs), when he had to duck behind a tree to avoid running into Alfred. The American, luckily for him, seemed too distracted to notice him. Puzzled at what had gotten Alfred so worked up, Sadiq walked to where Alfred had come from, and his mouth dropped open.

There was Matthew—cute, sweet, timid Matthew—moving his hand up and down his cock. Sadiq couldn't help but be transfixed. It seemed such an anomaly to him. That and the Canadian's cock was _huge_. He had his pants pushed down to expose it, and he was spread out on the grass, thighs apart and breaths heavy. And just when Sadiq thought it couldn't possibly get any hotter, Matthew hiked up his shirt, licked his fingers, and rolled them over his nipples until they were hard and glistening with saliva.

Sadiq threw a bone. A big one. And he just barely stopped himself when he found that his hand was slowly snaking down into his own pants. His eyes were fixated on Matthew, the moans falling from his lips making his cock throb. It was so hard to ignore it, and his balls began to get sore from neglect.

And then Matthew arched his back, hand rapidly moving over his length, moaning as he came. The boy hadn't jerked off for some time, because it was quite a lot that came out of him.

Sadiq bit his lip to hide his own moans, and he didn't keep his hand from wandering down to rub at his pants-covered crotch. He could feel his heated flesh pulsing beneath the material, and, oh fuck, he wanted to rub one off right there, but he was afraid Matthew would catch him.

So he'd made his way back through the woods and dove into his tent, releasing his cock and pumping it like there was no tomorrow. His orgasm was one of the most satisfying he'd had in months, and only a few minutes later Matthew returned, slipping into his sleeping bag and dozing off without a second look at Sadiq, who was watching his face and trying to remember how sexy it had looked when he had come.

Only now that the high was gone did Sadiq think how much of a creeper he had been the night before. Then again, it was well worth it. _Thank you, tiny bladder…_

Gilbert had already packed. Ever since the night Lovino had explained his true intentions to him, he had not been able to sleep. As he lay awake, he mulled angrily over how the Italian had taken advantage of him and of how much a shitty friend he was to Toni for sleeping with his lover. When he tried to sleep, he dreamt about his night with Lovino, and he was shunted out of his slumber, sweating and hard. It only made him feel guilty.

As so, he had packed the night before. Now he sat there, cross-legged, staring at the side of the tent. He barely noticed Ludwig as he crawled in to pack his own things.

Ludwig caught the vacant look in Gilbert's eyes and he instantly became concerned. Rarely did he ever see his brother so distant. "East, are you okay?"

When Gilbert didn't respond, Ludwig said louder, "East?"

"Was?" Gilbert asked, snapping out of his trance and glancing over at Ludwig. "Nothing,"

"Nein," Ludwig insisted. "It's something."

Gilbert took a deep breath and sighed, "Worried about being out on the fucking plains…"

Ludwig continued to stare at him, knowing he was lying. But Gilbert ignored him. "Ja, we all are. But that isn't what you're worried most about."

Gilbert suddenly flashed him a glare. "I'm not a fucking criminal to be interrogated, so lay off!" Ludwig blinked, shocked, as Gilbert left the tent, dragging his backpack out. Outside, everyone was staring at him. He glowered at them all. Lovino stood beside his tent, staring at him like he was crazy. Gilbert shot daggers at him until Lovino looked away, his expression that of terror.

He thought Gilbert would out him in front of everyone.

Gilbert wanted to do just that. Maybe then the little Italian fuck would learn his lesson. But Gilbert's throat constricted, and he couldn't find the words. With a growl of frustration, he said, "What are all of you looking at? Let's go!"

* * *

Translations:

 _Non, j'ai lui vu. Mais je ne voulais pas y croire-_ No, I have seen it. But I did not want to believe it.

 _Je suis anglais_ -I am English.

References:

1-Nathan Hale was a Continental soldier during the American Revolution who volunteered to gather intelligence in New York City, but was captured by the British and hanged. He was born in Connecticut. The quote mentioned were his last words.

A Word From the Writer: Prussia's going off the deep end fast and then you got states dying, relationships forming, a rift forming in the group... just a big hot mess. Then again, the world is a hot mess in the first place. No avoiding getting stuck in that. And what's up with creeping Turkey? I dunno, ever since he stalked Romano, I've always seen him as a bit of a creeper. And I did include some sort of masturbation scene. There, are you happy? XD

And, aw, that was perhaps one of the best fluff/lemon scenes I've ever written. And to believe it was with FrUK. I make miracles happen, people.


	53. What's Left Behind and What Follows

**Let's get freaky.  
**

Warning: Angst, some RusAme and GerIta fluff, gruesome scene, and an attempted rape.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**What's Left Behind and What Follows**

Everyone was tense after Gilbert's outburst, and it was still palpable with the Prussian walking among them, his jaw clenched and his eyes narrowed. Ludwig seriously hoped he hadn't cracked. As for now, though, there was nothing he could do to get through to his brother. He had slid too far into himself, and it scared Ludwig.

 _Lost_. Ludwig thought nostalgically. _Lost, just like he was under the Third Reich._ Then again, Ludwig had also been lost. If Gilbert was more experienced, older, wiser than Ludwig, how soon then would Ludwig also succumb to silence and brooding?

"Ludwig?"

Feliciano's voice snapped him out of his daze. "Ja, Feli?"

The Italian looked concerned. Deeply concerned. He saw how Gilbert was, and he didn't think he could stand Ludwig being the same way. It was like everyone had left him, forgotten about him. Lovino wouldn't talk to him—he couldn't afford to lose Ludwig, too. "Are you okay?"

"Ja, I'm fine." Ludwig replied, surprised at how hollow his voice sounded.

Feliciano didn't say anything. His gaze dropped downward. Ludwig felt something brush up against his hand. He looked up at Feliciano as the Italian clasped his hand. But Feliciano didn't look at him, only kept staring at the ground. The German continued to look ahead, a small smile on his face.

Alfred noticed their pair's hands, and he felt a surge of longing. He looked over at Ivan, who was walking a ways away from him, eyes forward. Alfred felt guilty about not being as close to Ivan as the Russian deserved. He wanted to be with him, but… there was just so much shit going on. Then again, he could understand the man's urgency. Everyday was a gamble with their lives. And if he or Ivan happened to die before they could get close, then… Alfred didn't even want to think about it.

They found Wynston waiting for them at the edge of the treeline. He gave them a small, weary smile as they approached. His eyes were swollen and red.

"Well, guys, this is it." he said, his voice solemn and wavering. "The Great Plains."

"Let's just call it 'The Plains.' The 'Great' part is kind of off-putting." Sadiq said, and everyone gave small laughter. Though their voices sounded more anxious than amused.

Arthur examined the landscape before him: miles upon miles of dry, yellow grass and rolling hills. There was no sign of life for who knew how far. The sky was a solid, slate gray. But the Briton wouldn't let the plains intimidate him, just like he didn't let the never-ending expanse of open sea intimidate him. "Come on. Before the full glare of winter is upon us." And he started forward.

The whole group followed after him, and Alfred passed Wynston, giving him a small, reassuring smile. But Wynston remained where he was, watching them go. He had tears in his eyes.

Alfred stopped. "Winnie?"

He was expecting Wynston to tell him not to call him that, but he only took a deep, shuddering breath and said, "Bye, Pa."

Alfred stared at him, and by now everyone had stopped along with him to watch the exchange.

"You can't leave us," Feliciano said, looking terrified. "You know the plains. We'll get lost without you."

Wynston shook his head. "I'm sorry, but I have responsibilities elsewhere. Before I found y'all at the bunker, I was protectin' a town nearby with a group of refugees. I sensed it was you, Pa, and before I set off, I told everyone that I'd be back within a week. And I keep my promises."

Alfred blinked at him and said, "Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

Wynston gave a watery smile. "'Cause I knew you'd tell me to get my ass back there."

Alfred laughed, but tears were welling in his own eyes. "You should."

"I know."

They just stood there and looked at each other. Alfred wanted nothing more than to hug his son, but he knew it would only make the parting all the more difficult. So, with a dip of his head, he said, "Good luck, son. We're going to fix this, I promise."

"I know." Wynston replied. He slipped a Stetson hat out of his pack and put it on. Alfred smiled. It completed Wynston. "I've been hiding this because of the people huntin' me." Wynston explained. "But now… I'm with ya. I'm not gonna let 'em intimidate me any longer. this is the day I take back what's mine." He tipped his hat to him. "Whatever it takes."

Alfred smiled back. "Whatever it takes."

They continued on after that, down by one member. Alfred kept looking back over his shoulder, watching his son as he waved them farewell until his form molded into the shadows of the trees. His heart ached after that. Two states dead, one left behind. When would it end?

He stiffened as a hand grabbed his own. He looked up to see Ivan gazing down at him.

"He will be fine, da? Cowboys are tough from what I know."

Alfred smiled. "Yeah… yeah, he'll be fine."

No one noticed their hand holding. They were all too busy worrying over the approaching thunderheads.

* * *

_Into the storm._ Lovino thought. _How fucking fitting._ But it looked like nothing compared to the storm going on in his head.

He still couldn't believe he let Gilbert fuck him. The bastard was the last person he would have chosen, but no one was there at his moment of need but the Prussian.

Antonio was out of his mind now. That was all he got from it. Lovino could sleep peacefully now without waking up from a dream about his lost lover, crying over him, missing him. He was stronger now. And although it hurt him to think that he had all but forgotten about the Spaniard, he knew that he couldn't afford to grieve anymore. He needed to focus on more important things—like surviving.

And even though he told himself again and again that what he did with Gilbert was right, was _imperative_ to his survival and sanity, he couldn't help but feel a bit guilty. He'd taken advantage of Gilbert. He knew that. But then again, did the Prussian really care? Lovino had watched throughout the centuries, had seen how Gilbert slept around and didn't care about the consequences. Why was it now that Gilbert suddenly decided to act all fucking hurt by sleeping with someone randomly?

But the more and more Lovino watched Gilbert, the more he began to suspect it wasn't an act. The albino was uptight, angry, and… torn. Torn between what, Lovino didn't know, but it was obvious in Gilbert's eyes. Earlier that day, Lovino had thought that Gilbert would give what they did away, and that terrified him. But now, he was more worried about it being his fault that the Prussian was slipping over the edge.

Goddammit. He had passed on his hurts. He hadn't meant to, but he had. In a stupid, desperate act, Lovino had relieved his own pain, but at the same time burdened Gilbert with it. Lovino was such a fuck up. Had always been a fuck up. No wonder Rome had liked Feliciano better. Hell, _everyone_ liked Feliciano better. Feliciano didn't hurt anyone. Feliciano was _perfect_.

 _How the hell did someone as fucked up as me survive this long?_ Lovino thought. _This is my punishment: to fuck everything up and suffer the consequences for an eternity. What a fucking kick in the ass…_

Arthur gave a huff of frustration as he studied the approaching storm clouds. He'd thought that they'd be able to get at least a little farther before the storm was upon them, but with the winds whipping at this rate, it would happen within the hour. He stopped and everyone stopped with him.

"We can't afford to get wet when it's this cold." Arthur told them. He longed to be among the trees, but they were a mile or so behind them, and he didn't want to backtrack. Never look back. Always look forward. No matter the tempest that lay before, always look ahead. "We'll camp here."

He set down his pack and examined the plains. Still so far to go. He could feel his bones aching already. And then his eyes found something peculiar.

A figure. Standing alone, shrouded in black. Arthur's heart felt like it had stopped. Was it one of the Organization? Why did no one else notice it? Why weren't they running?

As he continued to stare, frozen with shock, the person began to become clearer. He blinked in rapid succession, shaking his head. A mirage. But didn't mirages only happen in deserts? The only other explanation was that it was a figment of his imagination.

And then there she was: Britannia. He knew it even though he could only see the back of her. Golden hair fell in ringlets down her back, stopping just above her thighs. She had flowers and leaves woven into the strands. She was how Arthur liked to remember her: without helm or shield or trident or lion. She was a pure spirit, given life from the earth and giving it back with her magic. This was how she first emerged, how she presented herself to Arthur when he was young. Arthur felt a need to run to her and tell her all of his problems, allow her to wash them all away…

His heart nearly jumped into his throat when Britannia turned around. Skin gray, melting right off her bones. Hair turning to a nest of slippery, writhing worms. Her eyes were coal black. Long talons curled from her fingers, beckoning to him. And when she opened her mouth, a river of blood gushed out, sluicing toward him, ready to swallow him up…

He wanted to scream, to run, but he was frozen where he stood. All he could do was stare as corpses washed up to him, the blood carrying mutilated bodies. He looked down and felt faint when he saw Kiku with his eyes jabbed out and his lower jaw ripped from his skull, torn bits of flesh and tendons surrounding the lolling tongue.

 _They are waiting for you, my love._ Britannia cooed. _The damned are waiting for you to join them._

_But first, you will make their blood run._

A hand on Arthur's shoulder made him sway. He stumbled a bit as Francis said, "Arthur, cher, are you all right? You look sick."

Arthur quickly righted himself, his head snapping to the place where Britannia was standing. But she was gone. Nothing of her remained. No Britannia, no blood, and no bodies. _Dear Lord, what's happening to me?_

"Arthur?"

"I'm fine, Francis." _Am I?_ Arthur fought to get his pulse and breathing under control, turning back to the group. He was afraid that if he continued to survey the land, he would see other… horrible things.

Francis was still staring at him. The look on Arthur's face was sheer terror. It wasn't often that he saw that… or that Arthur allowed him to see it. He was about to ask Arthur if he wanted to lie down for a bit, if Francis could pitch their tent by himself so that Arthur could rest, but Arthur looked at him and said, "Come on, let's get this thing up."

Francis continued to stare at him, watching his shaky movements as Arthur unrolled the tent and began to put it up. When Arthur noticed that Francis was not helping him, he felt annoyed—no, that wasn't the word, _angry_. Arthur was so angry at Francis, murderously so, and he didn't know why, but he knew he should be.

"Stop standing there staring like a fucking idiot, and help me with this goddamn thing!" Arthur yelled, and Francis snapped out of it, lunging forward to help. The Frenchman's heart was in his throat, and his fingers were trembling as they struggled to untie the bundle of tentpoles. That look in Arthur's eyes, that _voice_ … for all the years Francis had known him, he had never seen or heard Arthur in this manner. It was frightening.

Now everyone was staring. And Arthur rounded on them. "What are you all fucking looking at? I said make camp!"

Everyone quickly looked away and got back to work. Alfred had heard Arthur get angry before—he'd done plenty to make that happen—but he knew instantly that this was different. Arthur's voice sounded cold and not his own. It might just be the pressure of the mission getting to him, but Alfred highly doubted the Brit would break so easily with his history. A man who built an empire couldn't just snap out of the blue one day. At the least Alfred expected a slow descent into madness, but even that possibility seemed unlikely.

And there went the tension again. Talk about drop-kicking it up a whole fucking mile. Now they had Gilbert _and_ Arthur to worry about. Fucking _great._

Alfred and Ivan exchanged glances, and it was obvious that the Russian was feeling a bit uneasy. It wasn't the fact that he was afraid of what Gilbert and Arthur might do—no, he wouldn't be afraid of them in any situation. But if the men happened to act out, they could end up splitting the group, and they needed more than ever to stick together.

The first drops of rain began to fall when the last of the tents was pitched. Everyone was quiet for fear of further pissing Arthur off. Francis was a bit hesitant about crawling into the same tent with Arthur, and it hurt him that he was. Just the night before, Arthur had made sweet love to him. What had happened to that Arthur? This wasn't the same one. This wasn't Arthur.

Francis could feel Arthur's eyes on him as he slipped into his sleeping bag. He glanced over, and his blood froze at how sinister Arthur's gaze looked. The Briton was leering—though it wasn't the sort of leer Francis preferred. It was dark, lustful, and—foreboding.

Before Francis could clamber out of his sleeping bag and out of the tent, Arthur had pounced, pinning him to the ground. Francis struggled beneath him, alarmed that he could not throw the man off. Surely since they were now reduced to human strength Francis would be a match for Arthur?

His hands were held above his head, Arthur's grip vicelike. The Briton's hand pushed up Francis's shirt.

"I know you want it, fucking whore." Arthur hissed. "I'm going to hollow you out really good. And you'll like it, won't you, slut?" His tongue darted out, snaking over Francis's closed lips. Beneath his shirt, Arthur's nails dug into one of Francis's wounds, ripping it open.

Francis whimpered and writhed beneath him. "Stop! Arthur, what are you doing? Get off of me! Stop!"

"I'll do what I goddamn please!" Arthur growled, taking a fistful of Francis's hair and pulling viciously.

Francis let out another cry, tears gathering in his eyes. Not this. Not again. Not so soon, when he was just starting to feel happy, just when he was forgetting… "Please," it was barely a whisper.

Arthur blinked and looked him over. "Francis? What the hell…?" The Briton felt something warm and liquid on his fingers, and he pulled his hand out of Francis's shirt. Blood. "Jesus Christ…"

Francis sat up, rubbing his wrists as Arthur released and clambered off of him. He sat there, staring at the blood soaking through the Frenchman's shirt. "Shit… let me—" He slipped a roll of gauze out of his pack and hiked up Francis's shirt, proceeding to wrap it around the open wound. Francis just watched, too shocked to do or say anything.

When Arthur was done, he sat back and asked, "Did… did I do that?"

Francis found his voice. "Arthur—"

"Just tell me."

"Yes," Francis croaked, his eyes going downcast.

"Oh…" Arthur's voice was shot with disbelief. "Oh God, th-that wasn't me… I blacked out."

Francis moved over to him, willing away his fright. The sting of his reopened wound barely registered. He reached out to him, needed to feel if this was still Arthur. "Cher—"

But the Briton scrambled out of his reach and across the tent. "Out. Go to Matthew's and Sadiq's tent. You're not safe here. I don't know if I can…" His eyes widened as he trailed off, realizing something. "Go on. Move!"

Francis stiffened and left, dragging his stuff with him. Arthur hated being so stern with him, but he couldn't control his own actions anymore. _Something's wrong._ Arthur thought. _Very wrong._

When he could no longer hear Francis's footsteps, Arthur dug through his pack. He found the dream catcher and tossed it away. It wouldn't help now. Whatever it was that was in him had enough power to overcome the safeguard. He eventually found his spell book—an old, black tome, shrunk down with magic, with torn and yellowed pages—and he set it before him. The pages flew by beneath his fingers as he searched for a ward powerful enough to protect him. He found one and willed his mind to focus, repeating the ancient words verbatim. If he said one wrong, held a single syllable too long, it could backfire and kill him. He knew this, but he trusted himself despite his state.

The air popped and fizzed around him, but other than that the evidence of magic was not visible. He was, after all, directing the ward to manifest in his own mind. When it was done, Arthur held his breath, expecting a sharp lash in his mind. But nothing came.

He took a deep breath and let it slowly out. He hadn't heard the blood roaring in his ears. The ward was powerful; to even create it required a great deal of Arthur's energy, and it would slowly continue to sap him of it as long as it was activated. The Briton was drowsy and felt faint. He had forgotten that he had a human's strength now. Normally that ward would have left him feeling a bit winded; now it felt like he'd run nonstop for days.

Arthur was forced to extinguish the ward or else slip into the void. He barely had the strength to say the parting words, and when he was done he collapsed onto his sleeping bag. Fatigue tugged at his eyelids.

The ward was gone, but surely something that powerful would have scared whatever it was that had been tormenting Arthur away. There were plenty of magic users out there who could sense Arthur's considerable presence from across oceans, and it hadn't been the first time some mediocre warlock had tried to seize and control his mind. He was, after all, very powerful and wise, and, as a result, more than desirable. But Arthur could shield his mind very well, though he'd been neglecting that to focus on other things in the past few days, one of those things being survival. Normally a good jab at the attacker's mind would send them reeling out of his head and into a month-long headache of their own. That wouldn't happen again, however. Arthur would be more vigilant now.

Still, from his experience with magic Arthur adamantly believed in superstition. He snatched up the dream catcher and once again held it to his chest as he dozed off.

No nightmares came to Arthur that night, and he was happy.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Okay, so maybe England's getting a little too kooky to lead anyone, but I'll keep him in such a position just to keep up conflict. And Britannia keeps trolling him wherever he goes. Troll on, my good lady, troll on~

And say goodbye to my OC. He was good while he lasted, and I'll miss him. Him and his signature Stetson hat. But I'll just tell you now, there will be one more state to show up. And _they_ will be key to our boys' final stand.


	54. Grow

**Are you starting to figure out why I wanted an even number of nations?  
**

Warning: Lemon, dubcon (kinda), fluff, angst, a fight. Good stuff, folks.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

 

**Grow**

The wind started just after the sunset, and it was a bitch combined with the cold. With no trees to shield them, the gusts buffeted the nylon endlessly. Kiku and Yao were both bundled up in their sleeping bags, hoping that the tent wouldn't be completely blown away by the storm.

It wasn't until midnight that Kiku actually fell asleep, although he had been plenty tired earlier in the evening. Every time the wind would blow, Kiku would bolt upright to hold the tent down. He eventually realized that he really didn't need to… and he promptly drifted off.

He didn't dream. He was in a dead sleep—something that he had been lacking for the past week or so. Being out in the middle of nowhere assured him that his recently dull senses would not be a problem.

Kiku was so out of it that he didn't notice Yao moving ever closer to him in his own sleeping bag. The Chinaman was cold, and he craved the warmth. That and he couldn't sleep because it had been so long since he had properly gotten off that every time he closed his eyes, he would awake only minutes later with a hard-on from the constant wet dreams he'd been having of late. He had been trying to ignore them, but his dick was obviously sending him a message. He was ashamed to even think of it, but he couldn't just jerk off. He'd tried that, and it still didn't work. He needed to fuck _something_ , and the only something to fuck was the man lying passed out right next to him.

Yao considered Kiku as his younger brother, but that didn't mean he didn't find him attractive. Of course, it had been a thought he'd stored safely in the back of his mind until now, when he couldn't make it go away. He loved Kiku, and he didn't want his sexual urges to ruin their relationship… even though it was really one-sided. Then again, he _might_ be able to use that as an excuse…

He was surprised when he tied Kiku's hands behind his back with one of his shoelaces and the younger man didn't even flinch. _Wow, he must really be tired._ Yao smirked. Was he really going to do this? Wake someone up who desperately needed sleep just to satisfy his own sexual needs?

Hell, yes.

Yao shimmied out of his sleeping bag and into Kiku's. He reached around Kiku's front, hiking up his shirt and pushing down his pants. _God, is this right? Should I be doing this?_ Yao knew well his conscious should be shouting a loud 'NO!', but he needed this so badly and Kiku was the only one near (and inert) enough to give it to him.

Kiku shifted as he felt something cold brush up against his stomach. He pulled the sleeping bag further around himself—or at least _tried_. His hands seemed to be bound tightly behind his back. Kiku almost panicked. Oh God, had his hands gotten _stuck_ there? He couldn't have that. He tried moving them again, but he felt the rough burn on his wrists.

Some sort of string. Someone had tied him up.

At first Kiku thought that they had been ambushed sometime in the night and that he hadn't heard a thing, which scared him more than he could say. But then why would his attacker be laying so close behind him with his cold hands up his shirt?

There could be only one answer. "Yao-sama?"

"Shì?"

"Why are you in my sleeping bag?"

"… I was cold."

Kiku stiffened when he felt Yao's fingers brush over his skin. Okay, this was really starting to get creepy. And Kiku's claustrophobia was kicking in. "Yao-sama… this is very awkward."

Yao couldn't help but smirk. He was feeling a bit reckless. "Not if you want this, too…" His hand dipped into Kiku's underwear.

Kiku gave a yelp and jerked away. "H-hey! You hands—!"

But Yao wrapped a hand around Kiku's mouth. "Shh. Everything is all right, Kiku. Just keep still…"

Yao's fingers brushed the base of Kiku's cock, and the younger man began to squirm against him. He would have kicked Yao away if it weren't for the older man's legs locking his own in place. Kiku screamed behind the hand muffling him.

"Shh, shh," Yao hissed in Kiku's ear. His lips brushed against the heated skin. His tongue darted out to trace the shell.

Kiku's eyes widened, and he stopped writhing altogether. This was really happening. He couldn't believe Yao was doing this. Yao, of all people. At the least, he'd expected Francis. He was too shocked to move as the fingers found his cock, wrapping themselves around the shaft.

"I'm sorry, Kiku." Yao said, though he truly wasn't. "But I need this. I know you do, too."

Yao moved against Kiku, suppressing a moan. Kiku's breath caught when he felt hard, pulsing warmth grinding against his backside.

"Please," Yao whispered. "Give me this."

Kiku was bound, and there was no getting away. There was no choice.

He was still as Yao pulled down Kiku's pants and underwear. Yao struggled to push his own down as well, and soon his arousal was pushed up against Kiku's bare ass. Yao let up his grip on Kiku's mouth so he could plunge the fingers of his other hand between the younger's lips.

"Wet them," he ordered. "so that I won't hurt you."

Kiku did so bitterly. He couldn't believe this. Only a couple of days after hearing Francis's horrific tale of rape and now Yao was going to do the same to him. It was wrong, it was cold, it was barbaric, it was…

Arousing.

Well, this _was_ Yao. He wasn't one of those thuggish inmates. Kiku knew Yao, and as so he knew that this was something Yao would never do unless pressured. And Kiku could tell by the strain in Yao's voice, by the throbbing need against his thigh, that Yao's subconscious was responsible for this.

Kiku, though he never openly admitted it, respected Yao. Loved—maybe. He had never been so close to anyone to love them. But he considered Yao closer to him than anyone else in his life, even though he had never shown it any way. He liked to keep that part of him secret. That he admired Yao. That Yao was wise. That Yao was… kawaii.

Kiku blushed as he thought about it. About all those times he thought those… dirty things about Yao and had gotten hard. With him being a secret pervert (okay, maybe not _that_ secret, but he liked to think that he was), it was no surprise to him that he was turned on by the thought of sleeping with someone who considered Kiku a younger brother. The biggest surprise aside from this fantasy actually _happening_ was that Yao was the one initiating it.

 _No!_ Kiku thought. This was wrong! He was not liking this. He was not liking this…

Yao took his fingers from Kiku's mouth, a trail of saliva following them.

"Keep still." Yao breathed against Kiku's neck, kissing it softly. "Very still. And quiet…" And he pushed a finger into him.

Kiku gasped and moved his hips away. It had been a good many months since he'd been penetrated by anything (yes, anything. He had toys), and a sting of pain shot up his spine.

Yao caught his hip. "Still, still, Kiku…" He pulled Kiku back to him, cock hardening with the man's resistance, and he forced his whole finger in. Kiku arched and moaned, and Yao no longer had to hold his hips in place.

"You're so tight, xiǎodì." Yao inserted another finger, and Kiku yelped, pushing back against them.

Kiku's cock was standing at full mast—neglected for so long and spurred by Yao's words. Kiku felt Yao's fingers nudge at his prostate, and he arched, moaning behind the man's fingers.

That was enough for Yao to take his fingers (rather haphazardly) from Kiku's ass and press the head of own cock to his entrance. He didn't say a thing as he pushed in.

"Mmm, mmm…!" Kiku struggled to suppress his moans with the feel of Yao inside him. Oh God. It really was happening. It took the end of the world, but Yao was finally fucking him!

Yao nipped Kiku's neck as he pulled out. He hadn't felt this for a long time. He held Kiku's hip for dear life. "Oh, Kiku~"

When Yao began to fuck him, Kiku fell into a haze of heat and lust. It was so uncommon for Kiku to just give himself up without a fight, especially to something (very controversial to him) like sex. Then again, the hard times had brought out changes in him. He could care less about his old traditions now. All he knew was that he was desperate for Yao, and he was willing to let him be one of the few people to see him in this sort of needy state.

It wasn't long before he could feel that Yao was at his edge, moaning into the soft skin of Kiku's neck, kissing him there. But Kiku needed more. Yao seemed so lost in his own pleasure, he wasn't properly tending to Kiku's.

Well, he'd just have to change that.

Yao's grip had become slack shortly into their romp, and Kiku took advantage by working his legs loose and sitting up. Yao stammered as his cock was freed from Kiku's ass, but Kiku didn't give him a chance to protest. "Untie me," he said breathlessly, and Yao reached around to do so. He knew he was taking a chance, and he was quite nervous. Normally he wasn't this bold. But Kiku decided that all that mattered was having Yao's cock in him and finishing himself, so he rolled Yao over, straddled him, and sunk back down on his cock.

"A-ah, uh, Yao…" Kiku moaned, too lost in his arousal to care about what came out of his mouth. He began to move, and Yao stared up at him in disbelief, hands going to Kiku's hips to guide him as he went up and down on his cock.

Yao became entranced by the fluid movements of Kiku's hips, the flawlessness of his skin, those sexy moans, those deep, brown eyes. Oh God, Kiku was so beautiful, how had Yao managed to keep himself from taking the man earlier? He reached out and grasped Kiku's swollen cock, stroking it in time with his rolling hips.

Kiku threw his head back and moaned, the high winds and the rain outside drowning him out (hopefully) as he came in hot bursts, clamping tightly around the dick inside him. Yao followed soon after, moaning Kiku's name over and over as he filled him.

They remained there, catching their breaths, enjoying the feel of being together, connected, at last. When Kiku came down from his high, he realized how brazen he had been. His face was at full blush as he looked meekly down at Yao.

But Yao was smiling. "It looks like I just could have asked."

Kiku's blush deepened. "I… I, uh…"

Yao shook his head and held out his arms to Kiku. "Come here,"

Kiku moved off of Yao's cock to lay next to him, cheek against Yao's chest and arm stretched over him. Yeah, this felt like a good position. Like in those mangas…

"You know," Yao said, holding him. "I like cute things."

Kiku smiled. "So… I did a good job?"

"More than a good job." Yao kissed the top of his head. "It's official. All cute things come from Japan."

Kiku didn't know what possessed him to do it, but he raised himself on his elbows and pressed his lips to Yao's. When they parted, Yao squealed and crushed Kiku to his chest.

"Oh, Kiku, you are so kawaii~!"

"Y-Yao-chan, you are… too… close…"

"Oh, sorry," Yao said, releasing him, heart lifting at the endearing honorific. They looked at each other for a moment.

"Want to try that kiss again? I really liked it."

Kiku nodded and did so, stiffening when he felt Yao's tongue run across his bottom lip. Kiku let him in, their tongues brushing past one another, Yao's fingers threading through his hair, their hips grinding together…

Kiku broke the kiss. "Again?" He was blushing, but, damn, he wanted it.

Yao smiled. "As long as it's storming, we can do anything we want."

Kiku smiled back and let Yao roll them over so that the younger lay beneath him. Yao ran his fingers through Kiku's hair.

"You know I can't resist cute things."

* * *

None of the tents blew away in the night, which they were all grateful for and surprised by. The storm lasted barely three hours, but the winds were still present. During the night Francis had snuck into Matthew and Sadiq's tent, and they honestly weren't that surprised about him requesting to spend the night with them. It was a struggle to move about properly as the wind buffeted their clothes and whipped their hair across their faces. It was then that Arthur realized he needed a haircut to avoid looking like a frog.

But there were other matters to tend to. When everyone was up and out, Arthur began, "We need to keep moving. As we have previously decided, we will continue east. Winter will be upon us before long, and it would be in our best interest to be free of the plains when the snows come." He glanced around. "There's a stream just ahead. It looks to be the last one for miles. If anyone is short of water, then fill up there."

"I think we should wash up, too." Francis added, examining his filthy hands. "This might be our last chance before the water's too freezing to risk bathing."

Arhur frowned. Trust Francis to suggest a public bath. But then again, he wasn't opposed to it. He felt grimy, and a good wash might brighten everyone's spirits. "Yes, that sounds… good. The water might not be the warmest at this time of day, but it will certainly wake us up." He smiled, but no one laughed. Okay, this was weird. Sure, everyone regarded Arthur's humor with little amusement, but that was one that should have earned at least a few laughs. He sighed. "We should also really talk more about our problems. All this silence is putting more tension between everyone than it ought to. Let's work on addressing the problems, not escalating them, hm?" His eyes passed subconsciously over Gilbert.

Even though it was only a second's glance, Gilbert noticed it well enough. Anger began to boil inside him. "Why do you look at me when you say that, huh?"

Arthur blinked. "What? Gilbert, I didn't—"

"Nein," Gilbert snapped. "You did. You think you're such a great fucking leader, don't you? Look at yourself now. Ordering everyone to spill what they might not want to tell. Who are you to boss everyone around? No one elected you to lead this group."

Arthur was now red-faced and furious. After all he'd been through worrying about protecting this group, about keeping it together, and now he got _this_? "No one elected me. That's true enough. But no one had the bollocks to step up, so I did. I've been through more than you know regarding this group, and I won't have someone saying I'm only doing it for control."

Gilbert clenched his fists. "There you go again, accusing 'someone.' Ja, don't try to put a mask over it, British prick, I know it's me that's 'troubling' you. And I see all the wary looks I get. Don't anyone try to deny it. You're all fucking scared of me, right? Waiting for me to blow up like some bomb that's counting down?"

"East," Ludwig began. "No one has said—"

"Of course no one has said anything!" Gilbert rounded on him. " _I'm_ the issue, ja? I'm the problem. You're all just waiting for me to fuck off so that you can talk outloud to each other and be happy and forget that there are _some_ people here that are acting as silent catalysts to what's going on. And they're too fucking cowardly to admit it." Gilbert glanced at Lovino, and the Italian's eyes widened. "So you just go on blaming me for the fucking tension. You don't even know why I'm so fucking angry."

"But, dude," Alfred cut in. "Artie just said that we were gonna talk about that stuff."

"Screw talking about it if the _cause_ of my anger isn't going to step up. Because he won't. He likes to run away from his problems and dump them on somebody else, but I'm tired of taking all of his shit." Gilbert felt like punching something. A tree. Where was a fucking tree when he needed one? Nothing was fucking working out for him and it was starting to piss him off. "I… I can't believe this. I'm done." He began to walk off in a random direction. "Feel free to talk now. I won't be around to blow up on you."

"Gilbert!" Arthur shouted. "We really shouldn't be wandering off on our own!"

"Don't tell me what to fucking do when _you_ were acting like an ass the other day. At least I'm solving the problem by removing myself from the situation, not escalating it by trying to lead with an unstable mind. Fuck you!" He gave Arthur a double bird, turned around, put his hands in his pockets, and walked off. He was done. He'd taken enough shit, even though most of what people had to say to him hadn't been voiced. But they sure as hell told him by how they _looked_ at him.

"East!" Ludwig called, but Gilbert didn't respond, didn't even stop.

Feliciano began to cry. "Ve, Gilbert's going away. He isn't coming back, is he?"

Lovino growled. "Oh, he sure as fuck will." He was pissed. Now Gilbert was being over dramatic about his goddamn problems. Who gave him that right? Everyone had issues, and even though Lovino had contributed to Gilbert's, he wasn't just going to let the man walk away from his troubles. No one could just walk away, and Gilbert had no right if no one else could. They were a fucking team, and there was no room for selfish attitudes.

So Lovino took off after him, not caring if people were staring or suspicious or _knew_ he was the cause of Gilbert's issues. He was going to put an end to this shit. It had been eating him, too. He had to say something before Gilbert did something to put the group or himself in danger.

When Lovino finally caught up to him, Gilbert didn't stop, but he said, "What the fuck do you want, Lovino? To punch me in the face like last time? Would that solve the problem?"

"Stop, bastard, I want to talk to you."

"I'm not stopping. If you need me to stop to listen to you, then fuck off."

Lovino boiled. "Hey, dickhead, I'm talking to you so _stop fucking walking away_." He grabbed Gilbert's shoulder and pulled him back, forcing him to stop.

Lovino could see the muscles in Gilbert's shoulders tense. He turned around, his face red and his jaw clenched. "Why can't you fucking leave me alone, Lovino? You've done enough."

"Then stop making a big fucking problem out of what we did!" Lovino growled back.

"How can I not, Lovino? How the _fuck_ can I not?" Gilbert was shouting now, and he didn't care who heard. "You used me, Lovino. You _used_ me! Do you know how much that fucking _hurts_?" Lovino was staring at him, speechless, and Gilbert scoffed. "Of course you don't." And he turned around, walking off again.

"You… you felt something, didn't you?" Lovino said, and Gilbert stopped.

"Nein. I _thought_ I felt something."

"Well then why the fuck else would you be hurt?" Lovino demanded. "I've known you to sleep with anyone and not feel a damn thing. Why now?"

Gilbert turned around, staring at him. "Nein, why _me_? Why did you choose me to dump all of this onto? I know I've done a lot of shitty things, but I would never give my problems to someone else. _I'm_ not even that cruel."

"It wouldn't have hurt so much if you didn't ca—"

"Answer me, Lovino!" Lovino was silent, glaring. "It could have been anyone, huh? Is that what you're going to say? West could have walked in there, and you would have screwed him because you needed to forget. How fucking selfish is that? … I was just a piece of flesh with a cock. That's all you needed, why worry about everything else?"

"It had to be you." Lovino muttered.

"What?"

"It had to be you!" he shouted, face flushed and his limbs shaking with fury. He'd thought about this. He knew the answer. "It couldn't just be anyone else. Before what we did… you fucking got to me. You wanted to pound the shit out of those convicts that had Francis because he was your friend. I said you didn't fucking know… but, goddammit, I was angry because you were acting how I should have fucking acted when Toni told me to run. You would have stayed by his side. You would have fought off those fuckers. But I fucking _ran_ , dammit. I ran, and Toni died, and I'm a fucking coward! That's all I've ever been, and you are everything I should fucking _be_." Lovino's voice lowered. "How I _should_ have been." When Gilbert didn't say anything, Lovino continued, "You're right. I am a horrible lover. How could I just leave Toni to die? And then I fucking sleep with his friend to end my suffering? Toni was the only one who ever loved me, and I just fucking let it fly away like piss in the wind. I was never meant to love anyone. That's how it is, and I see that now. I didn't even love Toni enough to save him from those bastards." Ah, fuck, he was crying. Why now, why the _fuck_ now?

Gilbert wanted to hold Lovino and tell him it was okay, but the others were watching at the camp, and he didn't want Lovino to be hurt by their secret getting out. He didn't think it was time for that yet. So instead he said, "Lovino, you aren't a coward. I was wrong to say that." Gilbert was admitting he had been wrong. That was a first.

"Don't tell me what I am when I fucking know myself well enough, bastard!" Lovino fought to keep his voice steady, but he was wiping his face with his hands.

"Lovi, you left Toni, but think about what you did after." Gilbert walked up to him, sighing. Wasn't Lovino supposed to be the one comforting him? Oh well. He touched Lovino's bandaged shoulder. "This shows how brave you are. You went back for your brother, even though you knew how dangerous that would be. You fucking carried him on your back up a ladder and into a helicopter and got shot doing it. You are not a coward, Lovino, you were just conflicted at the moment of your decision."

"You're fucking loyal. You would have stayed with Toni, made sure you got out of there together…"

"Nein. If it was between him and West, it would have been as equally hard for me, and… I don't know who I would have chosen. It was hard, but Feliciano is alive because of it."

"But Toni is gone…" Lovino cried. "He loved me and I let him down…"

"Lovino, Toni would not have wanted you to stay even if you had chosen to. He didn't care if you ran or not, because he wanted you alive. You didn't abandon him."

"How do you fucking know, b-bastard?"

"Because I know Toni." Gilbert said quietly. "And you do, too. Stop lying to yourself. You're tormenting yourself over his death. It hasn't been him that's been plaguing your mind, it's been your subconscious. You're feeling guilty about leaving him when you shouldn't be."

 _I am_. Lovino thought, his tears clearing up. _It's all me. Toni wouldn't want me to feel guilty… he loved me…_ He sniffed and looked up at Gilbert. "You've been doing this to yourself, too. It isn't me that's making you angry… admit it."

Gilbert felt himself go pale. "Admit what?"

Lovino smirked. "That I wasn't just another fuck."

Gilbert chuckled. "Ja, well, maybe you weren't."

"Come on, bastard. Everyone's probably eager to know what the fuck's going on."

"You won't tell them anything."

"Damn straight,"

As they made their way back to the camp, Lovino took a chance and said, "You want to do it again soon?"

"Ja. I don't think Toni would mind. It takes a special person to get close to you. I think I've earned his approval."

"Si, you have. Anyone who could make me that fucking angry definitely deserves some sort of reward."

When they got back to camp, everyone was staring at them. Lovino and Gilbert had made sure to stop smiling to ward off any suspicions about them being together.

"What the fuck are you all staring at?" Lovino snapped. "The fucker's back, so let's go!"

* * *

Translations:

xiǎodì-little brother

A Word From the Writer: So... just a bunch of shit going on, but you can basically see how everyone pairs up now, right? Riiiight? Nice little lemon scene I had for you guys, because it's fun to write. And then Prussia and Romano have finally settled things. Talk about pmsing, jeez. Hopefully they'll "sync up" in other ways. Ew, was that tmi? Sorry. XD


	55. If Tomorrow Never Comes...

**Beware the calm of comic relief.  
**

Warning: Angst (mostly England), disturbing images, FrUK, weapons.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**If Tomorrow Never Comes…**

They reached the stream within the hour, but Arthur was only mildly pleased. Gilbert's words were still fresh in his mind. _Should_ Arthur really be leading the group when he was unstable? Well, sure, he hadn't had any nightmares or any visions or bouts of anger lately and he was sure he'd gotten rid of whatever it was that was bothering him, but he didn't want to come across as a tyrant. He knew well enough what could happen if he acted like that.

Was he the one tearing the group apart?

"Hey, Arthur!" Francis called, dropping his discarded sweater on the ground next to his pants. "Come on, cher, let's go swimming~!" He hooked his thumbs into his underwear.

"Keep your knickers on, frog!"

Francis smirked. "Who's going to stop me~?"

"No, you don't!" Arthur leapt to his feet and chased Francis around for a bit, Francis laughing hysterically, until the Frenchman ran into the stream and sat down in the water. Arthur didn't follow him, smirking when Francis yelped and sprang to his feet.

"Ah! It's cold!"

"Hey!" Yao snapped, taking his canteen from the stream a few feet away. "At least let us get water first before you contaminate it!"

"Ohon, what, cher?" Francis leered. "You don't want a taste of me?" When Yao opened his mouth to retort, Francis splashed him with the freezing water.

Arthur wished he could join in with the frivolous activities but he felt… drained. He wanted nothing else but to rest, but he knew he had to keep going, stay strong, for the group. He sighed and pulled off his own shirt, his pants following after. Alfred wolf-whistled and Arthur flipped him off.

He stepped into the stream, and an icy chill crawled up his legs. He crouched (hell, he certainly wasn't making the mistake of sitting) and glanced over at Francis. His breath still caught with the wounds he saw on him.

"Do they hurt?" Arthur asked under his breath, scooping up some water and pouring it over his arm, watching the dirt wash off.

"No," Francis replied, though Arthur knew he was lying.

He was about to voice it, when a fountain of freezing water was poured over his head. He yelped and sputtered, moving away and looking up to see Alfred grinning down at him, overturned canteen in hand.

"Thought Francis would like seeing you soaked." Alfred laughed.

"Ouais, merci, Alfred." Francis leered.

Arthur flushed. "You little sod—!"

"Oh, Alfred~" Alfred turned around to see Ivan standing and smiling before him. "I found something in the stream that I thought you would like."

"Cool. What is i—AH!" Alfred pushed Ivan away, but not before the man dropped a crayfish down Alfred's shorts.

Everyone jeered and laughed as Alfred danced around, trying to get the thing out of his underwear. The poor creature dropped out not half a minute later, splashing into the water and promptly scuttling away.

Alfred stopped jumping around and bent over, hands on his knees to catch his breath. He had been close to taking his underwear off. He glared at Ivan, who was laughing so hard, tears were escaping his eyes. "You asshole. What woulda happened if that thing had clipped one of my balls, huh?"

"Then we'd answer the question of which ball you would keep." Arthur said, remembering their ridiculous conversation in the airport terminal so very long ago, and everyone broke out laughing again.

They all eventually finished bathing (though it took a little coaxing for Kiku to actually take anything off, and it didn't help that Francis was laughing pervertedly the whole time) and got dressed. They searched a bit for the crayfish (as it may have made a good meal), but they didn't find it and most really didn't want to eat anything that had taken a trip through Alfred's underwear anyway.

And they once again began their journey. It was almost ritual now. Sleep, get up, eat, walk, eat some more, walk, find a camp, set up the tents, eat, sleep. If only they could add the talking part in, then it would be a little better. Though Arthur didn't exactly know if 'better' was the word for the situation they were in. Maybe 'more tolerable.'

Wynston had been right. The land was all grass and shrub. Behind them, mountains stretched up to meet the sky, and throughout the day they were gradually growing smaller on the horizon. Arthur didn't like it. The flatter the land got, the more he felt like they were heading into a wasteland that went on forever. And the more he wasn't sure that they were all going to make it out alive.

Despite their situation, Arthur was in relatively high spirits. They were away from civilization. They had food. They had ammo. Now all they needed was a miracle.

_Why does winter have to come now?_

Arthur looked up at the sky. Slate gray. It was only a matter of time before snow fell, and then he didn't know what they would do. He only hoped going with Alfred's plan to cut across the Midwest and Northeast to reach the capital wouldn't end up being the death of them.

Then Arthur's body went cold. He knew he shouldn't, but he lowered his eyes.

And right there, _right there_ , standing only a few yards away, was the same shadowy form that had plagued Arthur's mind. He didn't stop to stare this time; he kept going, unnerved that it was a great deal closer than the last time he had seen it. He begged for it not to turn around. He didn't think he could bear seeing Britannia in such a demonic state. He begged for it not to be what he thought it was. Maybe it was an animal? But no one else was looking.

Whatever it was that was in him wasn't gone.

He didn't notice anyone around him. He became numb to the world, and that scared him. He wanted to pull his eyes away, to keep walking with his head down, but his eyes were locked in place and he couldn't move. And then it turned around.

She was radiant, his mother. Simply glowing with life and beauty. He fought to keep his mental defenses up; it was so hard not to reminisce in the memories of his childhood with her. He forced himself not to smile. _Don't crack, don't crack._ He chanted a poem that focused him inside his head, something that his mother had taught him to block his mind to whatever malicious force was trying to control it:

_The songs are sweet that sirens sing,_

_The sweetest ever heard,_

_But those who listen die cruel deaths,_

_And dead men say no words_

Over and over, he said this in his mind, but the image of Britannia would not go away. She was smiling at him, mocking him with her closeness, her _real-ness_. But he would not break, not now, not when he had gotten this far, this _sane_. He hadn't spent hundreds of years mastering magic just to have his brain claimed by any random force.

_The songs are sweet that sirens sing,_

_The sweetest ever heard,_

_But those who listen die cruel deaths,_

_But those who listen die cruel deaths..._

The words were lost to him as he watched Britannia's hand disappear inside of her white robes. And there was a glint of metal as she pulled out a gun, aiming it right at him. She cocked it, still smiling, still Britannia, the only mother Arthur had ever known, and now she pulled the trigger, the blast of the gunshot echoing through Arthur. He felt the sound, as if it were real. Britannia, his mother, wanted to kill him…

 _No,_ Arthur told himself firmly. _It can't be her, it's just a vision, it's_ —

"The Organization!" Ludwig yelled, and Arthur snapped out of his daze. The group was reeling and rushing all around him, crying out, and the sound of gunshots assaulted his eardrums…

Only when a bullet split through the air just inches from his face did Arthur realize _Shit, they found us!_

"Artie!" Alfred ran up to him and snatched up his arm. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Run!"

Alfred took off and Arthur followed him, not daring to look back. He could hear shouts from the men a little ways off, but all around him the ground was smoking and pitted with bullets. Everything was a blur; he was so focused on running that he barely noticed who was running with him. He willed his legs to keep moving, but there was really no place to hide. The land was riddled with hills. That was a start.

Arthur began looking for a place to take cover (because he was rapidly running out of energy) when he noticed that no one was in front of him. He slowed, longing to look back. He hissed as a bullet grazed his cheek, blood welling and dripping down his face, and he started running at full speed again. His pack was slowing him down, but he couldn't drop it. What if he got away? What if he needed the supplies for later on?

Just as he was thinking how impossible escaping sounded, his foot caught in a dip in the ground and he was falling, plummeting to the earth. He hit the dirt with a thud that knocked the breath out of him, and he quickly scrambled into the long grass…

Wait. Long grass!

It was everywhere, stretching for a good mile at least, and Arthur thanked God for it. He kept himself flat to the ground and continued to crawl along, wanting to get as deep into the grass as possible.

He could hear the men's feet trod on the grass, and Arthur hurried as far away as he could. A couple of them growled in frustration. They neared him, and Arthur stopped moving, stopped breathing. They approached him, guns ready… and then walked past.

They stopped, and one shouted, "Fucking cowards! We'll get you. You can't stay hidden forever in this field!"

And they walked back past Arthur. He heard the men conversing, and from the sound of it, there were at least ten of them.

"What the hell are we going to do now?"

"Can't believe those rats got away!"

"Calm down, everyone." And everyone went quiet. It was clear that this man was the leader. "All right, then. We make camp here. I will assign a couple of guys to take shifts skirting all four corners of this field every hour, on the hour."

"Why don't we just light the shit on fire and smoke 'em out?"

"Because, dumbass, more than the field would be on fire. The grass is dry this time of year. Do you wanna light up the whole prairie?"

"No…"

"Then shut up and do what I say."

The men were not in the field anymore. Arthur could hear them setting up camp close by. He decided to move while they were occupied. As he crawled blindly through the tall, dry grass, he began to wonder who else made it into the field alive.

_Dammit, Alfred, you'd better not have been a hero…_

* * *

Francis was making his way through the grass without any idea where he was going. What if he was alone? What if he was the only survivor?

His mind was so busy trying to come up with scenarios, that he didn't hear the crunching of the grass nearing his position.

He stopped dead just before an elbow came into view and his blood turned to ice.

He couldn't move. If he did, he would surely be noticed. He couldn't hear the men or where they went. For all he knew they could be crawling through the grass after him.

But he wasn't going down without a fight. He wouldn't be overpowered like last time.

So he laid there on his stomach, ready to grab hold of the person when they came into view and wrestle for his life. He couldn't let the man see him, though. Francis kind of needed a bit of an advantage in this situation. So, as soon as the man's whole arm came into view, he launched himself forward.

There were plenty of 'oof's and 'ow's and 'what the fuck's before the stranger rolled them over, pulling Francis's hair.

 _It's going to happen again._ Francis thought, his stomach churning. He squinted his eyes shut, and then he heard, "Francis…?"

He opened his eyes and stared right into the face of a very breathless Arthur. Francis gave a sigh of relief, and the Briton let go of his hair, scrambling off of him.

"Thank God I found you." Arthur panted. He didn't realize how sweaty he was, how hard his heart was pounding, until he lay on his back and took time to rest.

"Are you shot?" Francis asked, hands moving over him, searching for blood.

Arthur didn't have the energy to bat away his wandering hands. "No… no, just nicked on the cheek."

Francis grabbed Arthur's hand and squeezed it. "Have you seen the others?"

"No,"

"Do you know if anyone else is alive?"

Arthur swallowed dryly, his heart starting up a frantic tattoo in his chest again. "No,"

Francis buried his face in Arthur's chest. "We should have seen them coming… we should have paid better attention… merde…"

They lay there for a few minutes, catching their breaths, trying to calm themselves, staring at the gray sky.

"I hope it doesn't rain." Arthur said with worry. "We could freeze."

"Don't say it and it will not happen." Francis breathed, raising himself up on his elbows to look at him. "We need to keep looking."

Arthur nodded and rolled over, kissing Francis on the cheek. Francis blushed. "W-what was that for, cher?"

"In case we don't make it." Arthur replied, diving into the grass.

* * *

Translations:

merde-shit

A Word From the Writer: Whoo, it feels like it's been forever since I've posted! School has started again for me, so I'm a little drained right now. This is also my senior year and may be the last year I'll be able to freely write and update weekly. I hope it doesn't come to that because I live and breathe fanfiction, but this is just a heads up for everyone in case that happens. It's not like I'll stop writing, though. I'll always be a writer and I'll always have a special place in my heart for Hetalia.

Annnyway, enough depressing shit. The Organization is on their heels more so than our boys thought. Have all of them made it into the grass? Well, that's up to my wicked little mind.


	56. ... Remember Me...

**A bitchslap of feels.  
**

Warning: Angst, threats, weapons, injuries, CanadaxTurkey, mention of Prumano,GerIta (yes, you knew it was going to happen, didn't you?), and RusAme.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

… **Remember Me…**  


Matthew didn't know what to do.

He had made it this far, but he was alone. Utterly. He couldn't hear anyone around him and was too afraid to peek above the grass for the Organization members watching the field like hawks scanning for mice. Being alone and unsure, he did what he usually did when in a crisis.

He took a deep breath… and began to cry.

Well, the crying part wasn't his usual thing, but he had no one and there could have been a menagerie of things that could have happened and the attack was so sudden. Alfred could be dead. Francis could be captured, abused right at this very moment. He could be the sole survivor and he wouldn't know until he could find a way to get out of the field and away from the men who wanted him dead.

 _Come on, Mattie, suck it up. Don't be such a baby._ Alfred's words echoed through his head from a time when they were much younger. Of course only then it had been splinter. Now it was life or death.

But tears wouldn't help him at all, he knew that. And he was only wasting what little moisture he had in his body by crying. So he took another deep breath and wiped his eyes. Someone had to be alive. They _had_ to be. Statistics said there should be at least one other person alive along with him, and they had to be found.

So Matthew started off in a random direction, struggling to remember what little he'd seen of the field before he'd dove into the grass. He was near the left, facing east, east to where the field ended. He continued to map out his location as he moved through the grass. Every rustle, every squawk of a bird nearly made him scream.

He was so busy trying to calculate his position in the field, that he didn't notice the form moving in front of him until the last moment. Before he could stop, they collided, and Matthew immediately slammed his fist down as hard as he could between the man's shoulder blades, afraid that it was one of the Organization members come to get him.

The hit knocked the breath out of the other man, and he collapsed into the dirt facing Matthew. The Canadian peered down at him, more than ready to deal another punch, when he recognized him. "S-Sadiq?"

"Nice of you to notice." the Turk grumbled, coughing a bit as he struggled to lift himself off the ground. "Hefty punch. Learn that from your brother? I mean the one that's an idiot, not a pansy."

Matthew frowned. "I know how to punch. And insulting my family doesn't help at all in this situation."

Sadiq rolled his shoulders, feeling a bit guilty about offending Matthew. How could anyone offend someone with such a cute face? "You're right. I'm sorry." He cleared his throat. "Well, I'm definitely awake now. Is there anyone with you?" He peered behind Matthew to see.

Matthew shook his head. "Only us two." He lifted his head to examine the sky. Sadiq noted his smooth, milk-white neck. Had he ever been bitten there? It was just _asking_ to be bitten… Matthew's sigh brought him out of his reverie. "If it rains, we're screwed."

"We have our sleeping bags, at least." Sadiq pointed out, struggling to keep his eyes from wandering over bare patches of the Canadian's skin. Fuck, what had gotten into him? One time he saw Matthew jerking one, and that was all it took…

No. That was just the straw that broke the camel's back. He had wanted the Canadian for longer than he had acknowledged. When he was sick, Matthew had taken care of him, was always there, always murmuring words of comfort, hands going over Sadiq's body without knowing how it was affecting the Turk. All those times Matthew had tried to help someone else with their injuries, and Sadiq saying right then that _he_ needed Matthew, that Matthew could only care for, could only touch, _him_. And now, with one foot presumably in the grave, he was wanting Matthew even more.

 _Shit, I'm in deep…_ Even deeper than with Heracles. He'd always loved Heracles, first as a surrogate son, then as a lover. He remembered their first bout of lovemaking like it was yesterday, but now the only face he could see beneath him was Matthew's.

"Sadiq, are you all right? Your face is kind of red."

"Um… y-yeah, I'm fine. Just… a little winded from that run."

"Should be, old man." Matthew said, smiling. Such a sweet smile. And Sadiq loved sweet things.

Sadiq nudged him. "Hey, now you sound like your bully of a brother."

Matthew snorted. "You were asking for it with that response."

This bantering back and forth. Sadiq never knew how much he loved hearing Matthew talk. He'd barely heard him talk before the Uprising, had barely even _seen_ him. But now he regretted not looking. He regretted not having the time they could have had together. Now they were in some field in the middle of nowhere hiding from men that could kill them at a moment's notice. And Sadiq had yet to say how much he cared about Matthew.

Before he could stop himself, he was leaning down to kiss Matthew. Then he realized what he was doing and came up short. He opened his eyes, staring down at Matthew's wide indigo pools, inches away from his face.

"Sadiq…?" Matthew began, but then he blinked in realization. Oh, so that was how it was. The Canadian always knew something was up with Sadiq, but now he could pinpoint what. Well… he'd play that game. What the hell?

He propped himself up on his elbows and stared at Sadiq for a second. A dusting of pink was spreading across the Turk's cheeks, and he looked adorably embarrassed. Matthew fought to keep down a smile as he pressed his lips against Sadiq's.

It was chaste and warm, and Sadiq felt something go through him that made his breath catch. It was clear that the same thing happened to Matthew, as he tensed for a moment, then relaxed.

When they parted, Sadiq, whose mind was thoroughly blown, asked quietly, "Why did you do that?"

Matthew gave a small smile. A sweet smile. Just for him. "I figured if we survived this, it would be a sign that we should kiss more often."

Sadiq smiled back. "I'm game."

Matthew nodded. "Well, if you really want me, you're going to have to help me look for the others."

Sadiq felt a warmth pooling in his stomach, and he was about to say something back, but the words caught in his throat. He only thought them longingly as he watched Matthew crawl off into the grass.

_I would go to the ends of the earth and back to have you, Mattie._

_And then I'd go a little further, just to make sure you'd be mine._

* * *

"I can't fucking believe I got stuck with you, bastard."

Ludwig sighed as he continued to elbow his way through the grass. "Ja, ja, you've already said that."

Lovino scowled at him. "Well I _still_ can't fucking believe it."

Ludwig didn't say anything this time. The last thing he needed was to start a fight with the Italian and attract the attention of who knew how many men (and where they were) out there.

"Where did Feli go?" Lovino muttered to himself. "How could I have lost him? He was fucking _in front_ of me!"

"Maybe we will find him if we keep looking." Ludwig said, fighting to keep the bite out of his tone. Lovino couldn't believe he'd lost his brother. Ludwig couldn't believe they were brothers _at all_. Lovino was mean and cold, while Feliciano was sweet and caring and—

"You have that look again, wurst breath." Lovino said with annoyance, and Ludwig looked at him in confusion.

"Was? What look?"

"That damn look you always have when you look at my fratello."

Ludwig stopped crawling and Lovino stopped with him. He fought to keep down a blush. Had he been that obvious? He'd honestly thought he was doing a good job of hiding it. But then again, Lovino was overly protective. He didn't know what to say, so he let Lovino talk some more.

"Don't fucking act like you don't know. I know you've been creeping on Feli for a while. And I don't want your wurst-whacking hands anywhere near him!"

Ludwig huffed. Great. Now mother hen knew. So much for slowly making his move on Feliciano. Trust Feliciano to be completely oblivious to his near nonexistent advances and Lovino to know right off the bat. Then again, Ludwig himself was also a mother hen. He had to be—Gilbert was never one to be responsible for or perceptive of anything. He smirked.

"What about you and my bruder? You seemed to have a lot to talk about when he got angry earlier today."

Lovino's face turned tomato-red before you could say 'guilty.' "Th-that's not—the stupid bastard was being difficult, and I had to kick his ass back into shape with a few choice words."

Ludwig shook his head. "Do you honestly think I didn't hear what went on upstairs in that house?" At this, Lovino blanched just as quickly as he had blushed. "Ja, it was a good thing Feliciano was fast asleep and Yao was outside, or more people than Matthew and I would know."

Lovino broke his gaze to look at the ground. He was wringing his hands nervously. "The syrup bastard knows…" Well, they hadn't exactly been quiet when they'd fucked. He didn't know why he didn't suspect others had heard…

He looked back up at Ludwig, tears forming in his eyes as much as he tried to keep them down, dammit. "You… you can't fucking tell anyone." He and Gilbert just got on good terms, and, fuck, if he lost that with word getting around…

Ludwig shook his head. "Not if you don't tell anyone about me and Feliciano." He extended his hand. "Deal?"

Lovino was hesitant at first, but he eventually took his hand. "Fine, dammit." And they shook.

_I can't fucking believe I've made a pact with the potato bastard…_

* * *

Ivan wrapped his scarf further around himself so that it didn't snag on the grass. It had a couple of times before, and he worried that the men would have seen a few stalks of grass waving peculiarly about among a still sea of its fellows. But it hurt to move. The bullet lodged in his side made it painful to do anything other than breathe shallowly.

When the men had shown up, he hadn't turned and run like everyone else had. He'd slipped out his AK-47, and turned to face them, shooting up a storm. But he didn't fire for very long before a man aimed a good shot at his left side. The pain of it was excruciating when it'd hit him—if he was his normal, immortal self, it would be but a pinprick.

The pain had startled him, and made him lose focus for a second. By then the men had recovered and were taking aim at him, since he was the only one still standing before them. Instantly, Ivan knew he was outgunned, and he fled. It was hard for him to do. He never fled, never backed down, and when he did, he made sure to do something to hinder his enemies on the way.

But his running was pure shame. He'd done nothing. He hadn't taken out a single man, hadn't even shot them (mostly due to his urge to hurry and fire without taking proper aim in order to stun them), and now look what he had to show for it. A bullet wound.

It was bleeding, and it hurt like hell. He hadn't realized before how many muscles in his side it took just to crawl, but it must be a hell of a lot, because the wound would remind him in the form of a screaming sting up his torso. Ivan had taken time to assess the injury (though it was hard lying down), and it didn't feel like it had hit any vital organs. But it had been ten minutes, and the wound was still leaking blood, and he was starting to get dizzy with the loss of it. Ivan's initial goal diving into the field was to immediately start looking for his comrades. But now he had to stop to tend to his wound.

Ivan looked for something to wrap around it. He pulled at his greatcoat, but the material was far too strong to be ripped with his bare hands (without attracting attention), and Ivan wasn't willing to risk shrugging the pack from off his back and rummaging around in it to find his pocketknife. He sighed. He'd known the only thing that would work from the start, and he now had no choice but to use it.

He unwrapped his scarf from around his neck and looked at it. A light pink. Warm and soft to the touch. Yekaterina had given Ivan this scarf when he was so very young, when he had yet to become a power. It reminded him every day of the hardships he went through to get to where he was… well, before the Uprising. The scarf had been a symbol of strength, had been with him through thick and thin for centuries… was a reminder of his sisters. They had been strange, but he loved them like any brother would. And he felt like he was throwing away the one thing that connected him to them.

He pressed the scarf to his lips before rolling onto his side with a hiss and pushing it down on the bleeding wound. His heart sank a little as he saw the blood soak through. But he willed away the feeling and began to wrap his torso.

It was a good thing the scarf was long. It went around him three times and bound his injury so tightly that it stopped bleeding. He tied it off and took a few sips of water from his canteen. It was icy-cold, but he was used to that, and it made him feel a little bit stronger.

Ivan decided that he must keep moving. If he didn't, he could die just laying there, for the impending rain and the cold of night would claim him faster than his old self. But if he kept moving—just kept moving—he might have chance.

No. He _would_ have a chance. Because he knew Alfred was still out there, and he had yet to make love to him like he so desperately wanted. He'd promised he would protect Alfred, take care of him—love him. He couldn't leave him. Not now. Not when they were _so very close_.

_I will find you, my sunflower. Even if this wound takes every bit of strength I have in me, I will see you again._

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Finally! Mattie has paired up. It's an unusual and seldom-seen pair, I know, but Imma try to make it work. And what is up with this grass? Our boys are twitterpated. I feel bad for Russia. I like to pick on him a lot, just because I think of him as an ox and like to see him struggle through stuff. Did I mention that one of my most favorite pairings is RusAme? (tied with USUK/UKUS, FrUK, Prumano, and USCan/CanUS. Hell, Imma shipping whore). RusAme can be so bittersweet to write. I would huggle Russia every day if I could... you know, if it didn't break my ribs. Not to say I won't put that pairing before everyone else. No, I ship everything to a T. And who knew Turkey was a little romantic? Creepers gotta lure them in somehow, HURR (jk, Turkey just likes sweet things in general and Canada's _so_ sweet! *gush*)

Okay, so, just a little message to everyone. Next weekend I'll be gone most of Saturday taking a campus tour, so I probably won't be able to post until Sunday, which is still iffy because my grandmother will be here and I kinda have to spend time with her. If not Sunday, Monday fo' sho'. Sorry this was posted so late. I had to help out at my local Oktoberfest. BEER! Prussia would approve. But no beer for me. I stuck to the apple-stacking station. Me and my sis stacked dem apples like no tomorrow. X3

I also have a surprise for youuuu! So, I didn't realize it was gonna be Friday the 13th until, well Monday the 9th, so I posted some smutty (and cracky) Ameripan for you on the unluckiest day of the year. Look for _**Anything-But-Casual**_ ** _Friday_. ** Just to tide you over until the my next post.

TTFN!


	57. ... As I Was Yesterday

**Have all our boys made it?  
**

Warning: Angst, weapons, Prumano, RusAme, China/Japan.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

… **As I Was Yesterday**

"Ve, where is Ludwig? Where is my fratello? Where is everybody?"

"Shh, please, Feliciano-chan." Kiku urged. "We must be quiet."

Feliciano sniffed, quietly crying. "But I want to find everyone. Where did they all go, Kiku?"

Kiku sighed. "I do not know. But we have to be very, _very_ quiet, okay?"

They crawled along in silence, and Kiku was glad. Ever since he'd found the Italian curled up and sobbing (he'd heard him across the distance), Feliciano had been questioning him and crying. He could understand why Feliciano was crying, but he just wished that he'd do it silently.

Feliciano sniffed and stopped. "K-Kiku?"

Kiku halted in his advance through the grass and glanced over his shoulder. "Hai, Feliciano-chan?"

"Are they… are they d-dead?" Feliciano's eyes filled with tears again and he let out a soft sob, hiding his face in his hands.

Kiku sighed again. They would get nowhere like this. But he felt for Feliciano. He must be so scared. So, he turned around and took Feliciano's hands away from his face, holding them. Yeah, that felt like the right thing to do… "No, they're not dead. They are… hiding. Yes, they are hiding. And they are very good, because we have yet to find them."

Feliciano blinked at him. "Are we… hiding, too?"

Kiku nodded. "Hai, we are hiding… but we are also looking."

"Ve, it's hide-and-seek?"

"Uh, yes, hide-and-seek." Kiku decided to go off of that. Feliciano seemed calmer now… even excited. "The object of the game is to stay hidden, but keep moving so that we can find them."

"What happens when we find one of them?"

Kiku thought for a moment before saying, "We wait until we can see them so that we know who it is. Then we _whisper_ 'Found you.'"

Feliciano was smiling now. "Ve~okay! Let's go, Kiku."

Kiku and Feliciano moved through the grass, Feliciano's fears long forgotten. They were going to have fun~!

But Kiku had a dark cloud weighing heavy on his mind. Just the night before, he had slept with Yao. And now they were separated. He was still sore from their lovemaking (in the end, they'd had sex three times), though that had barely hindered him from running with the sound of bullets attacking his ears. He could still feel Yao inside him, with him, connected… He normally didn't let relationships get in the way of his logic, but this was really eating at him. For all he knew, it could have been the last time they were together. Forever.

 _Don't think about that._ Kiku told himself firmly. _Yao-chan will be all right. We will find him._

_We are only playing hide-and-seek._

* * *

Gilbert was still checking himself over for bullet holes, amazed that for all the shells that had flown past him that none had hit him.

Great, because he hated being sick.

The only thing that was hurting was his chest, but that was only because he was breathing so hard. When he'd run, he had tried to keep all those he cared about in his line of sight, but that had eventually proved impossible. They had all scattered like mice under a lantern. And now he was alone.

Alone. He hoped to God Ludwig had made it safely into the grass (maybe somewhere nearby). He didn't worry about Lovino, though. He _knew_ he was okay. The Italians were notorious for being fast runners, so it only made sense that they got away…

Right? Well, if Lovino had gotten shot, it might be a different story…

Why was he worrying? He was Prussia! He shouldn't be worrying about anything. Worry inhibited the senses… he couldn't afford to worry, not now. But he couldn't help but recall their earlier conversation. Lovino loved him. He could practically see it in the Italian's eyes. But they hadn't had the chance to tell each other.

It had seemed like it had been a long time since they'd had sex. And even when they had, they had been going so fast that Gilbert had barely taken time to note the softness of Lovino's skin, his hair, how beautiful he looked beneath him. He'd blown what might have been their one chance to be together by skipping over all of the important stuff that had made it meaningful. He couldn't have felt guiltier, but there was no time for that now.

He pushed his concerns to the back of his mind and continued on his way. If there was one thing that Gilbert stayed true to, it was not giving up. He was way too awesome to give in to anything. But he couldn't do this alone.

He knew someone must be alive. He needed to find someone and then maybe they would stand a chance.

* * *

" _Ah… ah-choo!"_

"Be _quiet_!" Yao shushed irritably.

Alfred wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Sorry, I have allergies, jeez."

"Maybe you get out more often. Then you would not have allergies."

"Can we stop talking about my fucking allergies? It's not exactly the topic of interest here."

Yao sighed. "Then just be quiet. I'm trying to hear if there is anyone close by."

He listened, but he could hear nothing but his own breathing. He longed to see Kiku's face between the shifting blades of grass.

Alfred huffed and decided to shut up. Starting a fight right now would not be ideal to their survival. His eyes scanned the area in front of him, almost expecting to see Ivan. But he did not show up, and the delay (because it _must_ be a delay) was killing him. Ivan wasn't one to succumb to surprise attacks. He was strong—he should have made it… right? Ivan would stay alive for him because they loved each other, and they hadn't had the time they needed to prove it yet.

He ran their last private exchanges through his mind, just to keep up the memories, and then something hit him that knocked the breath out of him.

_You better not have died to save me, you bastard._

A scream echoed across the field from a good length away, and Yao and Alfred both stiffened. That voice…

It was Mattie's.

Yao grabbed Alfred around the ankles as he lunged toward the direction of the scream, getting his legs under him to sit on his knees. But Yao pulled his legs out from under him, and he fell, face-first, onto the ground.

Alfred glared. "What the fuck? Let go of me, Mattie's in trouble!"

"No!" Yao snapped and jumped on top of him, wrestling to keep him close to the ground. "You crazy? You don't even know how many men are out there. They shoot us!"

"Get _off me_!" Alfred growled, kicking Yao in the stomach. Yao gave a breathless 'Oof' before tumbling off of him.

"Stop! Do you want your brother to see you shot down?"

Alfred stopped in the middle of pushing himself up to see above the grass and looked at the ground. He lowered himself grudgingly. "Goddammit," He hated when Yao was right.

"We'll move toward their voices," Yao said. "And see what we can do."

Alfred swallowed dryly, his heart pounding rapidly in his chest. _Oh, fuck, Mattie. Don't die. Please don't die._

_I can't lose you._

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Aw, brotherly America hikes up the feels. And poor little Canada. He always gets into bad luck. I feel like I should feel guilty, but... nah, Canada's just overall fun to pick on.


	58. The Worth of Identity

**I bet Canada wishes he still had that maple leaf sticker on his forehead...  
**

Warning: Turkey/Canada (it totally works!), threats, weapons, a violent interrogation.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**The Worth of Identity**

Matthew was screaming as the men wrestled him to the ground, tugging his arms behind his back.

"Let go of him!" Sadiq yelled, lunging toward him.

The man holding him pulled him back and snatched him up by his hair, yanking his head back so that he could see his face. The Turk gave a yelp as his neck snapped backward painfully.

"Shut the fuck up before we decide to really hurt your pal."

Sadiq glared like hell, but he shut his mouth. Ahead of him, Matthew was being pulled to his feet and pushed toward a small encampment at the start of the field.

It had happened so fast, Sadiq hadn't had time to react. One minute they were crawling along, chatting quietly between each other, their recent kiss making them light-hearted and numb to everything outside of their conversation. They must have not been paying attention to how they were disturbing the grass as they moved or how loud their voices had been, because in the blink of an eye, the men had crunched through the grass and subdued them. It was only when they had been lifted to stand at full height that Sadiq noticed how dangerously close they were to the Organization mens' camp. How could they have been so careless?

It had been Sadiq's fault. He never should have initiated that kiss. He should have known it would be distracting enough to get them caught, and now he didn't know if he could ever make that up to Matthew.

Fear gripped Matthew as he was shoved along, handcuffed and jostled on either side by an Organization member, all of whom looked like formidable survivalists. Men of the plains. These weren't city men, no, those men would be a lot easier to resist—these were tough men, descendents of equally tough fathers whose ancestors had been hardened by the land they had settled on over one hundred and fifty years ago. They knew hard work and hard times. To them, Matthew and Sadiq were a couple of escaped cattle being brought back to the field. Matthew himself was used to living in demanding conditions, but he was only one of two who could go against the men. For all he knew, the others had been killed. He saw no one from his group in their camp, and the men had stopped looking in the field. The only explanation was that he and Sadiq were the only survivors.

The realization hit him like a ton of bricks. He fought back tears as he was tugged into the camp, the other men who were keeping watch there greeting their comrades with triumphant cheers and hateful looks at their captives. They stared at Matthew and Sadiq like they were some loathsome parasites they had just pulled from their bodies. And now Matthew was beginning to admonish himself for not keeping track of where they had been going when they were still hidden safely away among the grass; the mental map of the field Matthew had ingrained in his memory had disappeared completely when he had kissed Sadiq. He didn't want to think of it as a mistake—he'd really liked it and planned to do more of it if they got out of this (which seemed a slim possibility at the moment)—but he could have done something other than kissing Sadiq. What had he been thinking? What about Cuba? What about Carlos?

It didn't seem fair that Matthew had forgotten him so easily that he could share an intimate moment with someone else without even thinking about his dead boyfriend who had done nothing but love him (albeit after he had realized that Matthew was Matthew and not Alfred). It shocked him how quickly he had moved on. Maybe all that sex with Alfred had made him into an asshole as well?

They were taken to a tent a set back a bit from the main site, seated the farthest away from the field—their only escape route. Matthew took one last look at it, at their last chance, before being ushered through the flaps inside.

The men moving them didn't say anything, and that might have unnerved Sadiq more than if they were jeering at them. They seemed cold and merciless—like they would shoot them at a moment's notice and think of it as no more than killing game. He let that brood in his mind as they were silently hogtied. Matthew bit his lip to keep in a yelp as his bruised arm was forced behind his back and his newly healed knee was bent at a painful angle. He looked over at Sadiq, and found him grimacing in pain at the rough way the men were handling his injured ankle.

"Please," Matthew begged. "He's hurt."

The men ignored him at first, and then they shared a silent exchange, deciding to tie Sadiq's hands under his knees, which were pulled up to his chest. They then used the rope from his wrists to tie his ankles together. Matthew winced, not knowing whether or not he'd managed to get Sadiq in a more comfortable position. Well, it was better than lying on your face like he was.

When the men left and Matthew no longer heard their footsteps he opened his mouth to ask about the Turk's condition, but was surprised when Sadiq spoke first.

"How's your arm? I saw they snatched you up pretty hard." Sadiq was seething, his anger at the men overwhelming the pain pulsing from his ankle. The bones were just starting to mend, but the splint (fashioned from slim pieces of wood lined with the balled-up sheets from the safehouse) had suffered cracks when he'd dived into the field. Despite that, though, he was angry at himself; angry that he couldn't protect Matthew when the Canadian needed it. Matthew had saved his life by carrying him across a slippery creek and dislocating his own knee because of it. Now they were trapped, tied up, and Sadiq could do nothing about it.

Matthew was in disbelief. "Sadiq, your ankle—"

"It's fine," he lied. "Your arm?"

Matthew sighed in defeat. "It's just a bruise."

"It isn't just a bruise. They hurt you."

Matthew smiled a little and shook his head. "You're just as bad as Francis."

"I'm sorry."

"Why?"

"I…" Sadiq sighed. "I shouldn't have kissed you. Not then, I mean. It was the wrong time, the wrong place—"

"Sadiq," The Turk stopped rambling as Matthew looked at him with a warm gaze. " _I_ kissed you. I _wanted_ to kiss you." The Canadian fought down a blush as he continued, "If you hadn't wanted to kiss me, I think I'd be more scared than I am right now."

Sadiq couldn't keep down a smile. "Goddamn, you're cute. I don't know why I never noticed before."

Matthew's blush glowed. "U-uh, I've never been very forward…"

"You should be," Sadiq said. "No, wait. Don't. If more people start to notice you, they might think you're cute enough to take away from me."

"I didn't know I was already yours," Matthew said with smirk. "Only if we survive this, remember?"

"Guess I'll have to find a way to get us out, then," Sadiq replied with a grin.

Matthew laughed a little, at the same time finding this all very silly and out of place. They really shouldn't be flirting with each other right now, when they could be killed, but it kept their minds off the situation. Besides, it was pretty funny considering Matthew was lying with his cheek pressed flat against the floor and his legs drawn up over his back and Sadiq was hunched over like a monkey, struggling to keep from falling because if he did, he wouldn't be able to sit back up again. They passed the next few minutes laughing at Sadiq nearly tipping over and catching himself at the last second.

After about an hour, though, things began to get increasingly uncomfortable. Matthew was a bit worse off than Sadiq; he was lying on his stomach with his head angled to one side (which strained his neck a great deal), and his arms were starting to go numb being stretched in the same place for so long. And by far the worst ache came from his knee. It was still sore from when he had landed on it at Francis's 'burial' and the angle at which it was bent was not helping it settle in the least.

Sadiq's ankle was hurting, but it was dull ache. He could tell Matthew was in pain. "Mattie, are you okay?"

Matthew was wincing, not even trying to hide his pain at this point. "Well, let's just say I'm not a bondage kind of guy."

Sadiq couldn't laugh, not when Matthew was suffering. And he still considered it his fault that they got into this mess…

Footsteps approached, and they stopped talking, stopped moving. They looked up and saw two men enter the tent. One was the leader, and the other was the tallest, biggest man in the group. That definitely wasn't a good sign.

The silence that pervaded the tent for the few moments they all looked at each other churned Sadiq's stomach. Something wasn't right.

But the mens' faces held no token to what it might be that was wrong; they were both expressionless. Then the leader—a tall, bald man with a dark mustache who looked to be in his late forties—said, "State your names."

Sadiq and Matthew flashed each other looks of alarm, but the leader wouldn't have it. "That doesn't involve you looking at each other. _State your names_."

The last sentence came out in a firm, cold tone that left no room for hesitation. But Sadiq and Matthew did hesitate. If they gave their names now, they knew they would be kept as captives until they were killed by the Organization. So they just stared at the ground.

The other, larger man moved so fast that Matthew barely had time to react before he was being snatched up by his hair. The Canadian gave a cry of pain as the man growled, "Tell us."

Matthew didn't say anything; bit his lip so that he wouldn't give the men the satisfaction of hearing him scream in pain. But his neck was bent back close to breaking point, and his scalp burned with every sharp tug of his hair. And still the man held his head there, suspended in the air and glared him down. His gaze was perhaps scarier than the agony that he was causing Matthew.

Sadiq watched in horror, and yet, what could he do? He couldn't tell them—that would be the death of both he and Matthew. And he couldn't move.

But he could speak.

"Don't hurt him."

His voice was firm, though with an underlying shakiness. The leader looked at him stonily and Sadiq held his gaze until the man said, "All right." He glanced at his companion, who was still holding Matthew. "Gunner, the masked fucker is trying to command us. You know what happens if anyone but the Overlord does that, right?"

The man called Gunner dropped Matthew carelessly to the ground. The Canadian couldn't catch himself; he fell flat on his face, and when he did turn his face to the side to breathe, he was bleeding from his lip and nose, his glasses thankfully still intact, though skewed.

Sadiq yearned to bash the man's face in, but all he could do was glare like all of Hell was behind his eyes. And he did just that as Gunner approached him, a wicked grin on his face. "So… why do you where that mask? A thief?"

Sadiq didn't say anything, though he wanted nothing more than to curse the guy out. When Gunner got no reaction from him, he drew back his fist… and punched Sadiq right in the face.

The faraway sound of Matthew yelling his name was lost behind the rush of pain like a burning brand shooting through his whole body and the destruction of his mask. Warmth flooded out of his nose in the form of blood, coating his front and making his head go light and dizzy. He felt for a moment like he would pass out, his vision flickering. But he was determined to be strong. He had to be. If he passed out right now, Matthew would be the one being abused for information instead of him.

Gunner chuckled as he examined the blood that covered his knuckles. The leader glowered down at him. "Don't look so tough without that mask of yours. I suggest you begin talking."

Sadiq coughed, sending more blood spilling down his chin, but did not speak. He continued to look at the leader, because that was who really mattered. Gunner, though, was not happy that he was being ignored.

"Want me to pound the shit out of the bastard until he talks, Seth?"

Seth quirked a smile. "I think you should be asking him that. So, how do you want it, boy? You will quickly find we can be very persuasive."

Sadiq kept his mouth shut and glared. Across the tent, Matthew writhed in his bonds. "Sadiq, stop," he begged.

"Oh," Seth walked over to Matthew. "I see." He slammed a foot down on Matthew's back, and the Canadian gasped, pressed against the ground and back aching. "I guess we'll have to do it this way, then."

Sadiq finally spoke, "He doesn't know anything. I found him while we were in the last town. I'm the one you want."

Seth raised an eyebrow, his foot still pushing Matthew down. "Really? He looks a lot like an Alfred F. Jones."

Sadiq eyes widened, but he quickly composed himself. He couldn't afford to give anything away. "He's not him. I don't know who you're talking about."

Gunner punched him in the chest this time, and Sadiq gasped for breath. He coughed and blood trickled down his lips. Seth held Sadiq's gaze levelly. "You're lucky we're not allowed to hurt Jones, at least not so much that it shows. That honor is reserved for the Overlord. But you," At this, he smiled. "You are expendable. So, unless you want us to kill you and take Jones back to the Organization by himself, you'd better start talking. Make yourself valuable."

Sadiq spit a glob of blood onto the ground and looked up at Seth. "My name is Sadiq… and my friend's name is Mark. We have been travelling across the country to find out if there is anyone with authority in the capital."

When Matthew heard Sadiq tell them his name, he stared at the Turk with wide eyes. But Sadiq didn't notice. He knew what he had done, and he wasn't guilty about it. It would be better if they found out that he was a nation, because if he managed to convince the men that Matthew wasn't a nation, the Canadian wouldn't be killed.

Seth quirked an eyebrow. "You have not heard of the Fellowship of Man?"

"No. Not at all. Do you work for them?"

"Yes. We work for the Overlord, the leader of the FoA." He studied Sadiq with steady eyes before asking, "Who were those other guys with you, then?"

Sadiq didn't flinch, didn't even blink, even with Gunner hovering menacingly over him. It was a good thing that the man was standing in front of him so that Matthew couldn't see him. For most of his life he'd worn a mask. It was symbolic to him, though he had long forgotten why. All he knew was that he wasn't ready for anyone to see his face yet. He felt like a part of him was missing—like he was _naked_ without his mask. But these men didn't count. Bastards didn't deserve any of his worry. "People that we found heading east. They don't know anything either."

Seth smiled. "Well, we're the authority now, and we're sorry for hurting you, but we have some criminals out and we can't afford to let anyone go without giving us suitable information. We are rebuilding the government into something that people can trust again. Why don't we take you out to the field so that you can tell your friends it's okay to come out?"

At this, Sadiq's heart started beating wildly in his chest. He was supposed to be a nobody with no knowledge whatsoever of anything going on in the country. His immediate reaction should rightfully be to side with whoever was working for a government that would protect him (at least that would be what he thought if he 'didn't know anything'), but he took too long to respond.

Besides that, this meant that he and Matthew weren't the only ones still alive.

Seth gave him a suspicious look. "Gunner, untie him. We'll take him out."

Sadiq kept his head low as Gunner moved around him, ridding him of his bonds, and then he was standing, though he stumbled a bit and winced from the pain that shot up from his ankle.

"Hurt?" Seth asked.

"Ankle," Sadiq replied, feeling extremely helpless by admitting it.

He made sure to not let Matthew see his face as he was led out of the tent. He could feel the Canadian's eyes on him the whole time.

The men in the camp watched him being led out to the field, their silence and stares making Sadiq feel like he was in the crosshairs of a dozen rifle lenses. With every step he took toward the tall grass, the harder his heart threw itself against his ribs. And then he stopped. Gunner's hand was on his shoulder, squeezing so hard that he was sure a bruise was forming there.

"So," Seth said. "Go on. Call them. Tell them all we want to ask is their names and what they know about the capital."

Sadiq swallowed. He opened his mouth, then closed it. No. He would not drag anyone else into this. His silence made Seth frown. A minute passed.

"Liar," Seth accused, and he nodded to Gunner. The man knew what to do. It was practically procedure now, what they had been training for.

Sadiq gasped as Gunner pulled him back to the campsite. Sadiq was intent on being back with Matthew, to show him that he was okay, but at the last moment he was shoved into a different tent. At this, he protested.

"Wait! Hey, I told you the truth!"

Gunner pushed him down to the ground. Sadiq fell onto his stomach, and Gunner sat on his legs. He writhed and resisted as best he could, but that only earned him a hard punch to the jaw that left him groaning and weak.

He couldn't do anything as Gunner tied him back up again. This time he was hogtied—no mercy spared for his injury. It hurt like a bitch, and Sadiq couldn't help but yelp as the ropes were pulled tight around the swollen ankle.

"You are a lying bastard." Gunner growled, and he moved Sadiq's ankle in such a way that made him split his lower lip between his teeth to keep in a scream. "You are trying to cover up for your friend. We know who he really is."

"He isn't Jones!" Sadiq shouted desperately, horrified at the panic in his voice.

At this, Gunner shoved his face into the ground until Sadiq couldn't fill his lungs. The man's breath was by his ear. "You can't hide him. He will be shipped out tomorrow, and once he gets to the capital, he will be killed."

Gunner let up on his head and Sadiq gulped down lungfuls of air. As the man walked to the flaps of the tent, he turned to look down at him, a smirk on his face. "You are just another Deceiver. You will die by our hands like the rest. We'll make sure it happens tonight."

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Poor Canada, always being mistaken for America at the worst of times. I just had to exploit that. And cool your tits, bros, didn't I say I ship everything? TurCan works, so chill. I like how I wrote Turkey all sweet and Canada all flirty. They're just bringing it out in each other, what can I say? And now just when Canada is actually getting together with someone, this shit happens. "Shit Happens" should be Canada's motto, seriously. More like "Shit Happens All the Fucking Time But Only to Me." But I love writing asshole characters and tense situations so, Canada, my brother from another mother, you'll just have to take it for a while. I'm sure you're used to it anyway.

Another thing. My campus tour was rescheduled, so we went somewhere else for the entire day. Let's just say it was foggy and raining and it was an outside tour of an historical landmark. I didn't like it being all wet, but at least I got the chance to use my camera (it takes film) so I can develop some prints in my photography class. That is, until we noticed that the film wasn't being fed properly. HERPDERP. Needless to say, my legs got a workout and my clothes got even more wet jamming it around the place trying to retake all the pics that, well, hadn't even been taken. So, next Saturday will be the campus tour, and I'll probably be updating on Sunday again.

Oh, and a weird occurrence. This tells you how much I think about Hetalia sometimes, hehe. So, I'm taking these self-defense classes because I'm kind of a weak beanpole and lo and behold there is this Ukrainian woman there. I think nothing of it... until a woman from Belarus arrives and starts translating some of the lectures to her. I mean, ftw, my mind was fucked. Like, seriously. We just did some kicks last class (I am so uncoordinated, LOL) and that Belarusian woman is pretty damn good at the groin kick. I was all like O_O"

Ta, darlings~!


	59. Lambs to the Slaughter

**DRAMA+VIOLENCE=WIN.  
**

Warning: Angst, violence, weapons, FrUK, molestation.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Lambs to the Slaughter**

Francis was panicking. "That was Matthieu's scream."

He and Arthur were close to the camp, and Francis could not stop the shaking in his hands. Arthur lay beside him, both on their stomachs, his side brushing the Frenchman's in a type of reassurance. Francis was near to tears, though he well knew crying wouldn't help them any now.

"We should have done something," Francis muttered, his voice breaking.

"We didn't know how many men there were," Arthur told him, just like he had been telling Francis for the last hour and a half. But the older man kept saying the same thing over and over again, as if wanting to incapacitate himself with guilt. "We couldn't do anything, Francis."

"Yes, we could have." Tears slipped out now, and Francis was too distraught to wipe them away.

"No, we couldn't," Arthur snapped, shocked at the hardness in his voice. But he couldn't help it; Francis had been pushing him closer to the edge of panic with his constant rambling, and Arthur thought he would go mad. Francis stopped crying and stared at the ground, sniffing. He blinked, and a few more tears fell down to soak the dirt. "Sorry. Francis… you can't keep beating yourself up over this. It isn't your fault. They ambushed us."

"We should have seen them coming," Francis insisted. "We should have been looking back."

Arthur took a deep breath and sighed. "There is no looking back when we want to move forward. It was a common mistake. But we don't have time to feel guilty. We have to find a way to get to that camp and get Matthew out."

Francis swallowed, his throat almost too scratchy to take it. Worry churned within him. "What if, what if they…?"

"Don't think about that," Arthur told him, knowing full well what Francis was thinking. If the Organization employed men with such twisted mindsets as the convicts, then the men who had Matthew could be the same. Arthur covered Francis's hand with his and looked at him. "We will find him before that happens. I didn't when it happened before, but I will find him before those damned men touch him."

Francis looked up at him, his eyes red and watery. "You did find me, Angleterre. And that's all that matters to me." He rested his head on Arthur's shoulder, and the Briton pressed his lips to his forehead.

"We are going to help Matthew now, Francis. And I need you to be strong, all right?" It was weird for Arthur to be telling Francis not to be weak when all of their lives they had wanted just that for the other. "We'll get him back. I promise."

"Tell me you love me." Francis needed to hear it. He needed to hear something happy in the world right now.

Arthur was not caught off guard. He wanted Francis to know that he cared if they happened to die. "I have always loved you, Francis." He was surprised that the words came out firmly and without tremor.

Francis stopped breathing for a second, and Arthur's heart skipped a beat. The Frenchman took a deep breath, what might just be the last lungful of air he'd ever be able to appreciate.

Francis's muscles rippled with anticipation and he was bristling with fury. "Let's kill these bastards."

* * *

Gilbert had heard Matthew's scream. It had to be his. But it had been nigh on two hours since he'd heard anything else but the wind and the rustling of the grass.

He had stopped looking for the others and decided that it would be best to keep moving toward the direction in which he had heard the men recede. He figured that if there were still others alive and hiding along with him in the field that they would also do the same. Besides, he was determined to see at least _one_ of his group alive.

He had been crawling as quietly as he could for a half hour (he was being slow for caution) before he could hear men's voices. And none of them were familiar. He paused for a second, trying to decide where the hell he could go from here. He was only one against—well, he knew it was more than one man could handle alone.

He was jolted out of his thoughts as he felt a hand wrap around his ankle.

He remembered not to yell at the last minute, and he turned himself over, trying to see his attacker as he kicked out with his other leg. But the ankle was easily caught. Adrenaline rushed through him.

There were two.

He had gotten too close to the camp and they had been crawling around in the grass, lying in wait for someone to stumble into their trap. How could he have been so stupid?

Before he could flip back over to crawl away, he was being pulled backward. He writhed like a fish, but he could not get away, both pairs of hands locked onto his ankles.

He drew back his fists, ready to fight if need be. But before he could see anyone, one of them let go of his foot and tackled him from the side.

The guy caught him by surprise, and he got a few good punches to the jaw and nose before kneeing him in the stomach. The man above him gasped for breath, and Gilbert took the time to realize that both of his ankles were free.

There was a flicking sound, and the blade of a knife pressed against his neck. They lay there breathing for a second before Yao said, "Gilbert?"

The man lying on top of Gilbert raised himself on his elbows and blinked at him, glasses askew. "Hey… Gilbert, dude, it's you!"

Yao pulled the knife blade away from the Prussian's throat. "Shh, Alfred!"

"Stop being so uptight, man." Alfred said and rolled off of Gilbert.

Gilbert rolled onto his stomach and studied at them both. They looked just as disheveled and anxious as he was. "Is it just you?"

"Yes," Yao answered, slipping the pocketknife back into his coat. "You're the only one we've found so far apart from each other."

"You heard the scream?"

"It was Mattie's," Alfred said with a look of murderous rage. "I'm over feeling bad for these fuckers when I kill them. I don't care how I do it, each and every one of them deserves it. If I have to become a monster to protect what's mine, then I will do it." He looked a Gilbert. "We're going to rescue my brother. You in?"

"Are you kidding?" Gilbert laughed quietly. "You'll need my awesomeness."

"Good," Yao said, leaning in. "Now here's our plan…"

* * *

Matthew stared at the flaps of the tent. He had been doing so for hours, he was sure, and yet there had been no movement anywhere near the tent. He could hear low voices outside, but no one came close enough to be coherent to his ears, no one came to see him.

And Sadiq had not come back.

The pain pervading Matthew's whole body seemed obsolete to his worry over the Turk. The men had taken him out to attract whoever else might be hiding in the grass. What had happened? Had Sadiq said anything? Had they found more of them? Had they found bodies?

And was Sadiq… no longer alive? Earlier, he'd heard a little scuffle a distance away from his tent. It sounded like Sadiq, and he had listened keenly. After a few minutes everything went silent. When the men had left the tent, Matthew had never wanted them to return save with Sadiq. Now he wanted nothing more than for the men _to_ return. He knew they probably wouldn't tell him anything, but maybe if he cooperated…

He was going to die. That was it. If Sadiq was gone, he had no one there to help him. And he was already convinced that the others were gone as well. He was alone. Utterly alone. And he would be taken to the capital, set before the Overlord, tortured, and killed. No one would believe he wasn't Alfred. He looked exactly like him—enough for Cuba and others to beat him up over it. And if the Organization claimed that they had captured and killed the personification of America, they would then have the power to do whatever they wanted. Matthew had no doubt that they would take quick advantage of having someone who closely resembled Alfred killed as soon as possible.

"Sadiq," Matthew breathed. He couldn't stop the tears coming to his eyes. "Oh God, Sadiq," They hadn't even had time to be together. Even after only an hour of acknowledging their love for each other, Matthew was still devastated by the loss. It was like losing Carlos all over again. Maybe it was just as well. Maybe this was his punishment for choosing to forget Cuba so easily. By all accounts, he still loved him dearly. If only Alfred had seen that, then they could have gone public with their relationship…

Alfred. He was gone as well. There really was no hope for this country now. Or any of the others. Francis had died just a few days after being returned to them. It wasn't fair that his last days consisted over remembering what had been taken from him. And Matthew had just gotten him back. Francis had died, lived, and died again. It was almost too much for Matthew to take.

He didn't care who saw now. He had lost everything, and he cried for it. For the cruelty of the world. Why did it insist on playing these horrible games with him?

The sun was setting now, and it was getting dark. Matthew cried for what felt like days until his lungs were sore. After that, he resigned himself to laying there and myopically staring at the wall of the tent, thoughtless, expressionless, numb…

And then, finally, footsteps approached his tent. Matthew didn't mind to look as the men stepped in. They didn't deserve a response.

But the men were not offended. They had dealt with captives before, and an unresisting prisoner was a good prisoner. They untied him and stood him up. Matthew stumbled at first when he put weight on his sore knee, but he was determined to walk by himself.

He was led through the camp, others staring, muttering disconcertingly to each other as he walked past. He was forced to sit on the ground, surrounded by a wide circle of men. He all but ignored them, his head down, defeated. How else could he act? Defiant? Angry? His life was already over.

Then Seth came to stand in front of him. When Matthew didn't respond, still staring at the ground, someone behind Matthew stepped up and grabbed hold of his hair. The Canadian grunted as his head was pulled up so that he met eyes with Seth.

"You will watch this."

The man behind him let go of his hair, and Matthew's head dropped back down. He didn't even think about what he had just been told, he was so in despair.

And then there was a commotion beyond the ring of men. Matthew didn't look up, not until he heard a man shout, "Where is Mark? What did you do to him?"

Matthew's head snapped up. "Sadiq?"

The men parted and Sadiq, his arms tied behind him, was shoved into view. When he was pushed into the ring, he stumbled and looked up at Matthew. "Mat—Mark?" Sadiq slapped himself mentally for forgetting their secrecy, but he was so damned glad to see him. He wanted nothing more than to run over and hug him… a close second to bashing Seth's face in.

Matthew was so shocked he forgot that he was surrounded by a group of dangerous men. He stood quickly and said, "Sadiq,"

A hand came down on his shoulder, pulling him back. Matthew hadn't even noticed he'd taken a few steps forward.

Sadiq, meanwhile, was forced to kneel by the rough, pushing hands on his shoulders. He was glad that the men had allowed him to pull his hood up so that his face was hidden. He had said that he became easily ill if his head and neck were exposed to the cold for long periods of time, and he knew how annoying sick captives could be by experience. But despite that, he could still see Matthew, albeit with a little more difficulty.

Seth came to stand in front of him, and Sadiq was furious that he was blocking his view of Matthew. "This is your last chance, boy. If you have any answers to spill, you might want to start spilling them now."

Sadiq kept his head down and didn't say anything. If he lied, they would know. If he told the truth, then he as well as Matthew would be killed. Silence was the only option in his mind.

Seth raised an eyebrow. "Still not talking, eh? How 'bout we change that?" He turned to face the men behind Matthew. "He's yours, boys. Just remember not to give him any marks that'll show. We wouldn't want the Overlord on our asses."

Matthew frowned, not quite sure what Seth was meaning, but when he felt hands wrap around him and journey up his shirt, he knew full well what was going on.

Someone nibbled his ear. "You look different than your picture. Like a girl."

Matthew squeaked as he felt fingers burrow into his pants. Since when had society taken such a perverse turn? "And he sounds like a girl, too. Are you sure you ain't one?"

"He probably has a pussy like one."

"Ooh, haven't had that in a while…"

Sadiq's stomach was churning as he watched more and more men stretch out their hands to touch Matthew, to fondle him. "Stop!" he yelled.

"Oh?" Seth turned to him. "Are you ready to give up some information now, or shall we continue to molest your friend?"

Sadiq was fuming. "I—!"

"Don't!" Matthew shouted, and Sadiq gave him a look of disbelief.

"But, M-Mark, those bastards, they're going to—"

"I know," Matthew said hollowly, then with a firm tone he added, "Don't tell them anything, Sadiq." The Canadian knew what he would have to go through to ensure that, but he didn't want them to die before they even had a chance to truly know each other. And if that meant enduring the touches of a few filthy Organization members, Matthew would take it. Though he couldn't stop his heart from beating rapidly in his chest nor the bile rising in his throat as he felt the hand in his pants snake lower.

Sadiq didn't care if they died now. They were going to die anyway, and he didn't want the rest of Matthew's life to be haunted by what would happen to him if Sadiq didn't speak up. They would die, both of them, yes. It would be perfect. They would finally be together, and they would be safe, nothing touching them, just _together_ …

_Fuck, I'm in over my head._

Sadiq opened his mouth, fully prepared to tell the men who they really were, when the sound of gunshots pierced the air and what must be a body hit the ground. There was a shout in a language that Sadiq didn't understand followed by a loud crackling and a scream. The men around them were so shocked and bewildered that they just stared as the crowd parted, and Francis came charging through, shooting off anyone he could with a stolen submachine gun.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Whoa... just, whoa, WTF, France with a machine gun? Mind fucking blown. Despite all the stereotypes France gets over his military and shit I just though I'd throw him a bone. A really big one, with fifty rounds per cartridge, automatic, and most likely illegally sold. Bros, it's totally _not_ an Uzi. Really.

And TurCan is totally working. I am milking this for all it's worth. Poor little Canada just can't catch a break both in life and relationships. (But then again, Turkey is fucking hawt, so he kind of deserves a handicap).

Now, I suck a dates. _Next_ Saturday will be when I will have the campus tour. So, hey, a Saturday post this weekend. Surprise! (Probably not as surprising as France with an Uz-I mean, submachine gun). XD


	60. Ashes to Ashes

**Burn, baby, burn!  
**

Warning: Angst, violence, weapons, gore.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Ashes to Ashes**

Matthew watched in shock and awe as the men scattered around him, struggling to take out their weapons, but being riddled with bullets by a murderous-looking Francis before being able to do so, or being doused with flames at the flick of Arthur's fingers and a shouted, unintelligible word.

Matthew was so struck by the odd sight (because it certainly was odd seeing Francis cranking out bullets as quick as the blink of an eye and leaving a trail of shells behind him) that the man was able to tackle him to the ground from behind.

"You won't get away, you fucker!" the man growled in his ear, and Matthew kicked and elbowed but to no avail.

Matthew thought for sure the man had him, and then he just… stopped. Matthew stared at him in confusion for a second and the man began to writhe and scream in agony. Matthew watched in horror as his attacker's face reddened, then blistered (actually _bubbled_ for a second), and then his skin began to melt and blacken. Matthew was so appalled, that he shrieked and flung the man off of him, the smell of burning flesh making him turn and throw up all the food he had in his stomach.

When he was through (feeling a little lightheaded now), he looked up and saw Arthur staring down at him. His fingers were pointed at the man still writhing, slowly dying with a keening screech on the ground beside him.

"Sorry about that. Are you okay, lad?"

"Y-yeah. I think…"

"Then get up and run," Arthur told him before aiming his fingers at an approaching attacker and shouting, _"Byrnan!"_

The man before him stopped, dropped his weapon, and fell to his knees, his skin boiling. And Matthew didn't stick around to see what happened next.

He was making his way toward the field before he remembered Sadiq and turned back. He had to find him.

"You fucking dumbass Canadian!"

Someone grabbed hold of his arm and tugged him back. He tried to resist before hearing the one gripping him say, "Look at me, dammit. Do I sound like those bastards?"

Matthew did, and his heart soared. "L-Lovino?"

"Who else, idiot?" Lovino snapped, then began to tug him back toward the field. "We're here to fucking save you, and now you're trying to go back into that mindfuck? No _fucking_ way!"

"'We're'?" Matthew parroted and looked around, not believing his eyes.

Nations were pouring out of the tall grasses like animals running from a wildfire. Ludwig was just behind Lovino, and he plunged into action without a second glance at Matthew, shooting at anyone who confronted him. He made his way toward the tents, searching for the packs the Organization men had stolen. Gilbert came rushing out next, Yao and Alfred not far behind. When Alfred and Matthew locked eyes, the American immediately headed for him…

… And nearly bowled him over with his glomp.

"Mattie!" Alfred yelled in his ear. "Don't fucking scare me like that again, bro. Seriously, oh fuck…" He squeezed Matthew hard around the middle.

Matthew pushed Alfred off of him and righted his skewed glasses. "Al… Sadiq,"

Alfred's brow furrowed as if confused by Matthew's worry. "What about 'im?"

"He's here. He was captured with me, and I can't find him."

Alfred nodded. "All right. I'll go find him—"

"I'm coming with you."

"No, Mattie. We just found you—"

"I am _coming with you_." Matthew snapped before racing back into the crowd with Alfred on his heels. He was shocked at how many bodies were falling around him. There had been more men than they had thought.

It felt like forever before Matthew heard Sadiq's voice and rushed over to it. He was practically ignored (which was just fine with him at the moment) and covered by Alfred, who was shooting down whoever came close.

And then he found him. There, wrestling with Seth, was Sadiq. The Turk had managed to pull Seth to the ground where he was better able to match him, as his injury would be hindering him if he stood. As Matthew got closer, Seth came out on top, sitting on Sadiq's lower back, and twisting Sadiq's arm around so that he was forced onto his stomach. Seth pressed a gun to his head.

"Sadiq!" Matthew cried.

Seth looked at him. "Stop!"

Matthew did so, and Alfred was beside him. "Mattie…?" he panted before seeing Seth aiming his gun at him.

"Put that down or I'll shoot him."

Alfred scowled and lowered his weapon.

At this point, the camp had grown silent. Alfred looked around and was astonished to see that all of the Organization men were either dead or dying, but was even more shocked to spot all of the nations there. Matthew couldn't pull his eyes away from the terrifying scene before him.

The other nations gathered around to see what was going on. Seth ignored them; he only had eyes for Alfred.

"So," he hissed. "Mr. Jones has finally decided to show himself. Did it take this much to make you lose that cowardly streak, boy?"

Alfred growled, "Heroes are not cowards. Stand down."

Seth laughed. "A load of bullshit if I ever heard some. Come now, your friend is in danger. You should really be more willing to cooperate."

"I don't cooperate with motherfuckers like you," Alfred spat. "Let him go."

"I would change my tone if I were you, kid," Seth said, pressing the barrel of his handgun further into Sadiq's temple through his hood. "You wouldn't want anyone else killed for your wussy ass, or is that the way you do it now?"

Alfred clenched his jaw. "Shut up!"

"Oh, have I struck a nerve?" Seth laughed again. "The Organization is right about you. Someone like you should have never been a country. Not some young, cocky-ass pussy like you. No wonder our economy went down the shitter."

"And you think of yourself as any less of a bastard by killing innocent people?"

"Innocent?" Seth laughed aloud at this. "Boy, no one is innocent anymore."

It was a good thing Alfred was furious, because he was causing enough of a distraction for Arthur to try and break down the walls surrounding Seth's mind, which really wasn't very hard. Though, Arthur had to admit, it would be a great deal easier if he was as strong as he was before. He was feeling a little weak from all the magic he had been using today. But that barely worried him as he let the tendrils of his mind push against Seth's barriers. There weren't many—which was common in non-magic users. But he was as stubborn as all hell.

The recent battle made it hard for Arthur to focus; he was so hyped up on adrenaline that it took a lot of energy just to stretch his consciousness over to the man. And still Alfred and Seth went on arguing.

"How about an exchange, boy? Him for you. I could care less about this guy, but _you_ are who I really want."

"I'll go to the Organization on my own terms," Alfred growled. "No way, I'm letting you drag me in."

Sadiq was seriously starting to worry now. Alfred wasn't exactly good with negotiations—as proven by his many enemies and mishaps in the past. At the moment, he wasn't quite so sure he'd get out of this one alive.

Seth shrugged. "Fine. If I can't convince you, then I might as well shoot him. I don't care if I don't have any leverage then. You can kill me if you want. They _will_ find you. They know where you are now. Nowhere is safe. And when they do find you, you'll be sorry you ever dared to live this long." Seth cocked his gun.

"Sadiq!" Matthew cried.

Sadiq closed his eyes, ready to be done. But Seth was taking an unusually long time to shoot him. Was the fucker trying to play with him? He moved his head slightly, then decided to hell with it and moved however he fucking wanted until he was looking into Seth's blank stare.

Arthur had seized hold of his mind, jabbing at it until it was subdued and wrapping his consciousness around it so that it could not escape, could not function. "Alfred," he said, his eyes closed and his voice straining with the energy it took to restrain the man. "Shoot him. Quickly."

"Non," Francis said, coming forward. "I will do the honor." And he walked over to the paralyzed Seth, deciding that he didn't want to shoot him.

He wanted to see his brains smeared across the dirt.

So he used the butt of his gun to crush Seth's skull in from behind. Blood poured from the wound and Francis kept hitting him, pounding into his skull until it was concave at one end and brain matter spilled at his feet. And all the while this was happening Seth was forced to sit upright by Arthur who wanted Francis to have a good aim so it would all end as quickly as possible and Sadiq lay below him, covering his face as blood and brain spurted down onto him.

When it was done, Francis stood over the man, his breathing ragged, staring at the damage he'd caused. Yeah. He supposed that was pretty good compensation to what the other members of his Organization had done to him and had tried to do to Matthew. Blood was splattered on his arms, chest, and face but he didn't care. Seth was dead, and everyone was safe.

Only when Arthur felt no presence of energy in Seth whatsoever did he let go and retreat back into his own mind, Seth dropping to the ground with a heavy _thud_. When Arthur finally did return to himself, all the hurt and fear that Seth had endured before he died rushed into his own head. The experience surprised him and incapacitated him for a second. Normally he'd be strong enough to block these mental scars. But now he wasn't and it took a minute or so for him to recover. He swayed a bit.

"Are you okay, Arthur?"

Arthur opened his eyes and blinked before steadying himself. He held his head. "Yes… yes, I'm fine, Francis."

Everyone was silent as Francis rejoined the group. Blood was dripping from the butt of his gun, and Feliciano was crying. Alfred once again looked around to make sure everyone was there. Ivan caught his eye, and he breathed a sigh of relief. Though there was something about the Russian's posture that suggested something was off. Worry clouded his mind. Ivan wasn't easily hurt.

"It is done," Ludwig said, anxious to get moving for Feliciano's sake. The man was sobbing beside him from all the scary bloodshed that had gone on and he didn't want the Italian to be scarred by this, though he may well be scarred by many things already. "Let's go."

No one talked. Matthew rushed forward to help Sadiq up, asking if he was okay, but that was pretty much it with the dialogue. Alfred helped support the Turk as they headed off, eager to go around the field and be on their way. Arthur sighed with the prominent silence again. They had just learned how to speak to each other about their problems, but now… now they had slipped a few good paces behind. They would have to start all over, learn how to talk again.

The gunshot split Arthur's thoughts, and he nearly stumbled with the suddenness of it. He looked around to see if anyone had been hurt. Kiku was staring at the hills around the field and shouted, "More! There are more of them!"

"More?" Gilbert exclaimed with exasperation. "They just keep fucking coming!"

"They must have been out hunting or scouting or something." Matthew bounced ideas off of Alfred as they took off for the field again. If there was any other place Alfred would be right now, it would not be in the field. It only made him feel trapped again, not any safer. But it was the only thing to hide in for miles. He had no choice.

But Arthur did. He was fed up with this shit. All of this running around and looking over their shoulders. Being hunted down like prized game. What had been done to Francis, Matthew, Sadiq, and no doubt many others…

Rage filled him, and that gave Arthur ample enough power to summon his magical strength to form a formidable spell. He was tired of being the leader of the group and not being able to do a damn thing when someone was kidnapped or hurt. Now, though, he was going to stop it.

When Francis saw Arthur stop, he skidded to an abrupt halt. "Arthur, what are you doing? Run!"

"Stay back, Francis!" Arthur warned as bullets whizzed by him close enough for him to feel the deadly path they made through the air.

Francis didn't know what made him stay back, but the tone in Arthur's voice was like nothing he had ever heard. So he stayed where he was, and the other nations stopped as well, watching.

Arthur took a deep breath, gathering his energy at his core and focusing it out through his hands which he held, outstretched, to those men now running down from the hills and to the edge of the field to confront him. But he wouldn't let them get that far.

_"Byrnan eall!"_

The words seemed to explode from him, and power burned from his stomach through his arms and out of his hands. Within moments, the whole field before him was dancing with flames that soared eight feet tall and the Organization men were falling to their knees, their pained voices piercing the air as they were slowly burned alive.

For a moment, Arthur watched in wonder. He had done grander things, yes, but the gratification that came with doing something when they had been so desperate topped century upon century of magical feats.

Arthur would have loved to move. The flames _were_ getting a bit too close for his liking. He could feel his eyebrows singeing. Sounds became far away to him, morphed as if muffled. He was vaguely aware of the raging heat surrounding him and the sharp pains shooting up from his hands before he felt as light as air, his legs like jelly, and he fell backward into the dry, burning grass.

The last thing he saw was red fire licking toward him. Then all he could see was black.

* * *

Translations:

 _Byrnan eall-_ -Burn all

A Word From the Writer: Holy fuck, things heated up fast. Guess it got too hot for the Organization guys and their heels were smoking as they got the hell out of that hot mess. Then again, England's a pretty hot guy with quite a boiling temper. /end of puns. Ahem, so we see here the wild England in its prime element, that being fire, because he's a fucking badass and it was really the only element I could find cool-sounding Anglo-Saxon words to go with. Now, I'm not Tolkien (as much as I wish I were) so I'm not an expert in Anglo-Saxon and I just looked up some dictionary online. It felt really shady, so I only included a couple of words. And I know Anglo-Saxon is Germanic but I thought it would be more to England's nature to use words from a language widely spoken on his isle before France came in and contributed to it. He don't need no fancy French-Latin words to work his magic. /just kidding, official end of puns.

So England went berserk and, unfortunately, he forgot that he was mortal and since magic requires energy the whole time one uses it, it sapped his strength to the point of unconsciousness... or worse. The basic mechanics of it is inspired by Christopher Paolini's rendition of magic, which is particularly scientific and that I greatly admire. Although it may not have been Paolini's original idea, his were the only books I've ever read to expand so thoroughly on magic. But, unfortunately, England does not have a dragon. I know, I know, it would be awesome. And named Smaug (because, fuck yes, England could totally have tamed him).

See you next Sunday! X3


	61. Internal Immolation

**Reality has shit the bed.  
**

Warning: Angst, violence, frightening images, FrUK, death scene, demonic forces, RusAme.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Internal Immolation**

Arthur was crawling through the grass, his head snapping side to side, searching for other members of his group. He shouldn't be the only one, he knew that much—there was something else in the grass with him. Some _thing_ else, because Arthur could only identify that its mind was present and working… alive. He kept moving, kept looking, not sure whether he should be afraid of what he might find.

And then a shadow caught his attention. He whipped his head around, muscles stiffening. The thing moved toward him, a virtually shapeless mass of black. As tense as he was, he could not run. For some reason he knew that wasn't an option. If he stood above the grasses, he would be seen. He knew that he would be dead then. He didn't even have the courage to peer above at the sky.

All he could do was watch and wait. He could practically hear his heart pounding in his chest, and the hair stood up on the back of his neck. Then his mind touched whatever it was that was coming toward him and he realized…

This was not human. It wasn't animal either. It was something that had a mind so clouded with black, choking smoke that Arthur could not penetrate it for more than a moment without going faint.

But it felt strangely familiar to him, though he knew it shouldn't rightfully be. This thing wasn't a part of his mind. It belonged to a creature totally different, and no one had ever been able to occupy his mind so much that he felt an intimate connection with them, like they were a part of his consciousness…

And that may have scared the shit out of him more than the thing that was slinking toward him through the grass, now only a few feet away. Arthur held his breath, putting up barriers in his mind, but finding with much alarm that he hadn't the strength or ability to do so. His very _self_ was now open for anyone to take over.

Before he could try to protect himself some other way, the thing before him stopped moving altogether. It sat there for what seemed like hours, and Arthur stared, feeling it staring right back at him. He held his breath.

Then, in the blink of an eye, the thing launched itself forward through the grass and right at him. It was so black, it seemed to swallow what little light there was surrounding it. He saw two, milk-white eyes, the pupils nonexistent, the orbs themselves large and pale. Blood dripped from the eyes down bony cheeks. The skin was stretched over the bones, as if there wasn't enough to cover the entire face, torn and ragged. The thing had a muzzle akin to that of a crocodile jutting out of a face that looked practically like a human skeleton. Horns curled over its head, blood red.

Arthur immediately tried to put up barriers to protect himself, but then he saw the creature's forehead open into a large, red orb. The third eye stared into his soul, paralyzing him with fright, and just like that he was incapacitated.

The crocodile jaws opened, and three rows of six-inch fangs closed around him.

* * *

"Arthur!" Francis cried out and ran toward the flames. He heard Matthew yelling behind him, but he didn't stop. Arthur had fallen into the grass, and the fire was quickly going through it, burning up the dry strands every heartbeat. It popped and sizzled with magical energy, feeding off of it and the fuel it was consuming as it surrounded its maker.

The Frenchman reached a wall of flames and stared at it, the heat stinging his eyes and the smoke clogging his lungs. Summoning his courage, he dashed through, feeling parts of his clothes catch fire but not bothering to stop long enough to put it out. He looked frantically around for the Briton, hoping to God he wasn't burned alive, and he found him, a crumpled mass lying prostrate in the field a few feet away. Flames were beginning to extend their tendrils toward his body, touching his clothes, his hair.

Francis ran toward him, patting out the fire that had gotten to him and grabbing him under his arms, dragging him to an opening in the flames for it only to close up the moment he arrived. Francis yelped and looked around, but there was no other way out.

He would have to go through the flames again.

So he held his breath—what little of it he had—and dove through, pulling Arthur with him. He screamed as he felt his skin burn, but he didn't stop, dragging Arthur away from the fire until he was too tired to drag him anymore.

By then, fortunately, Alfred had run up to help him.

"You okay?" Alfred asked, though even he knew it was a stupid question.

Francis nodded despite his burns. "Oui—Arthur," He was patting out the flames that had caught on Arthur's clothes and hair. He barely tended to himself before his own body was burned.

"I know," Alfred told him and picked the Briton up in his arms, throwing him over his shoulder. He ran, and he hoped Francis was following him because his legs would not stop, especially not when Arthur was dying.

The Briton flapped listlessly against his back as he ran through the field. Alfred didn't have time to stop and feel for a pulse or even feel him breathe, but he refused to believe that Arthur was dead, because how could he be? Arthur had always been there, _always_ …

When he reached the rest of his group, who had been standing there watching the scene play out, Alfred didn't stop and yelled at them, "Move!"

No one protested that order, and they were running as far away from the field as they could. Behind them, the fire spread, though it slowed after it reached the end of the tall grasses and did not attempt to pursue them. And then something peculiar happened.

It just… went out.

"Stop," Ivan said, and everyone did so. He scrutinized the field and its lack of flames for a moment before turning to Alfred. "Lay him down."

Alfred's heart jumped into his throat as he laid Arthur down on the ground and was finally able to examine his pale, expressionless face. There was a nervous edge in Ivan's voice that was worrying. He noticed that the Russian's scarf was wrapped around his torso, and he was holding his left side, wincing as he moved. Ivan knelt down beside Arthur. He looked like he was asleep.

"What's wrong with him?" Alfred asked tremulously. _Please, don't be dead. Please…_ He didn't know what he would do if Arthur died. He remembered how devastated Matthew had been when he thought that Francis had died, and he was afraid that that would soon be him.

Ivan touched the Briton's forehead. Closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. He performed magic himself, and he knew from the moment that Arthur had lit that field on fire that he was in over his head. What had he been thinking? Had he even been thinking at all? "That fire went out so suddenly for a reason… magic runs on energy. And when its energy source goes out, it goes out."

"'Goes out'?" Alfred asked, feeling his stomach sink. "Oh, no… no, he can't be, he can't… I won't let him!" Alfred resorted back to the defiant behavior of his earlier childhood, but how could he help it? He had practically lost a parent. His eyes burned with tears. "No," He crouched down next to Arthur and shook his shoulder. "Iggy, bro, wake up. Stop faking this shit, it's not funny…"

Francis came to stand behind him, running his fingers comfortingly through Alfred's hair. "Is he breathing? Is there a pulse?" He was holding his breath.

Ivan placed his fingers on Arthur's lips. Nothing. They trailed down to press at his throat. "He used too much energy. He didn't remember he was weaker than before… he's gone."

Feliciano broke out in tears and Ludwig had to console him. Francis started to cry as well, albeit more quietly. But Alfred… Alfred didn't do anything, just sat there, staring down at Arthur's pale, burned form.

Ivan couldn't stop himself. He reached over and covered Alfred's hand with his own. But Alfred snatched his hand back and glared at him. His eyes held such loathing and scorn that Ivan felt his heart break. And very few people could do that to him.

"Liar," Alfred hissed. "You're lying! You're lying! I know you are!"

Ivan blinked at him. "Alfred… feel for yourself." He snagged one of Alfred's hands and tried to pull it down so that the American could feel Arthur's absent pulse. But Alfred pulled away, ducking his head and shaking it.

"No, no, goddammit, I don't want to feel it!" He was crying now, hot tears rolling down his cheeks. He wiped them grudgingly with the heel of a gloved hand. "He's not dead, he's not dead, he can't be, he's not dead…" He kept repeating the words over and over again, as if saying them would bring Arthur back.

"Al…" Matthew said, making his way toward him, tears in his eyes. "Oh, Al," He knew how it felt. He knew the hurt. He wrapped his arms around Alfred's shoulders and pulled him to him, letting Alfred bury his head in his face and sob.

Ivan ached to hold him. But he knew he couldn't. It wouldn't do any good if he exposed he and Alfred's relationship in this moment of grief. It would just be more to deal with.

Francis knelt down beside Arthur, struggling to hold back sobs as he took Arthur's hand, squeezed it, and slipped off the man's glove. He took off his own and interlaced their fingers.

"Je t'aimerai toujours, ma belle." He brought the back of Arthur's hand to his lips. He felt the coldness of the skin, and he broke down. He sat there on his knees and clutched Arthur's hand to his chest, never wanting to let go.

It was too soon to let go.

_You have left me so soon, Arthur. I love you. I love you so much. Why couldn't we have more time?_

Alfred reached over and grabbed Arthur's other hand. He held it, squeezing it multiple times. His heart sank when it did not squeeze back.

He really was gone.

Forever.

"Why did you have to save us, you dumbass?" Alfred cried and laid Arthur's hand on the Briton's chest. He brushed Arthur's singed hair out of his face, touched his eyebrows. "I liked them… I've always liked them, and I made fun of him for them, and he never knew," he muttered to himself. _He didn't know so much._ _You told me not to be a hero, Arthur. Why did you do it? Why did you die for us?_

It wasn't fair. Francis kept thinking it over and over as he smoothed out Arthur's clothes and stared down at his face. Such a beautiful, peaceful face. It wasn't fair that they had discovered each other so soon before he'd died. God was playing tricks on him again, but this time the blow cut him deeper than he could ever imagine.

Is this what Arthur had felt like when he thought that Francis had died?

 _Oh, mon amour, that must have been so hard…_ Tears dropped from off his cheeks to soak into Arthur's pant leg. _So very hard._

Alfred lifted Arthur's hand and turned it over. His palms were a bright red, burned from the fire they had expelled. He choked down another sob. "You idiot."

Francis didn't care who saw. He bent down and pressed his lips to Arthur's. He pulled back and ran a thumb over the Briton's burned cheek. "C'est ne pas juste."

No one was crying as much as Francis and Alfred were (maybe except Feliciano), but there wasn't a dry eye around. Arthur had come to mean so much more to them all since they had come together in the terminal back in Queens so very long ago. He had become their leader, had protected them, had died to ensure their safety. He symbolized all those people who had given everything to shield their families, their co-workers, their friends, even complete strangers from the Uprising. And suddenly, Alfred did understand what Francis had said, despite the language barrier.

It really wasn't fair.

All the while this was going on, Arthur was watching from somewhere deep inside his head. He was trapped, entangled and held down by blackened tendrils of his own mind, staring at the back of his eyelids, the only way of knowing what was going on gained solely through his hearing. And what he heard broke his heart and frightened him to no end.

"I'm not dead," Arthur said, though it was obvious no one heard him. He jerked in his bonds and tried to get away, tried to open his eyes, tried to _live_. "You guys, I'm not dead!" he yelled.

But his words only echoed and were thrust back at him. He wasn't the one controlling himself now. And he wasn't supposed to talk, not even move.

A taloned hand flashed out of the darkness and wrapped around his throat, squeezing mercilessly. Arthur gagged and gasped, feeling his head throb and his lungs scream for air.

"Silence," was the only command given, and he was released, gulping down as much air as he could. He looked up. He could not see anything outside of the spotlight shining down on him, but he looked in the direction of Britannia's voice.

"You're not my mother, you bastard." The thing had been using Britannia's form to get inside his head, to better affect him. "How dare you impersonate her?"

The creature appeared out of the dark. It was cloaked in the form of his mother, and Arthur scowled. Its eyes—large, pale, owl-like eyes—stared down at him. Blood red lips parted to reveal long, pointed teeth.

"You are finally mine now, Arthur Blackheart," the demon hissed in a deep, rattling voice.

"Dead men say no words."

* * *

They had no choice. They had to keep going. They didn't see any men behind them, but they didn't want to take that risk, especially when Arthur had given his life so that they could escape.

Alfred refused to let them bury Arthur right there. It seemed so cruel to leave him within seeing distance of the place he had died, of where it all had gone so very wrong. He also insisted on carrying him, but it was clear within the first few minutes that his limbs were so shaky from the grief he was experiencing, that he was incapable of bearing Arthur's weight. Ivan took the limp Arthur into his arms instead. Alfred stayed close to Arthur's side, always touching the Briton in some way. The contact was so precious to him; within the hour, Arthur would be far beneath the earth, and Alfred would not be able to reach him.

Francis hung back from the rest of the group, trying to keep as quiet as he could. He didn't want Matthew to see him breaking down—he needed to be strong for the Canadian because who else would be? Alfred had already closed himself to everything and everyone outside of his mourning. And yet, every now and then, Francis wouldn't be able to keep his emotions in, and his lungs would suddenly contract in a loud sob of agony. And then he would catch himself, go silent again. That was what ultimately got to him—the silence. It brought back so many memories of broken things and bereavement. Except that this wouldn't be just another memory. He would live what had happened here every day for the rest of his life.

The only thing that comforted him was that Arthur was out of danger. Was it selfish of him to want him to be here, beside him, holding his hand?

Silence held dominion over them all until they were far enough away from the field to see it only as a smudge of yellow and black on the darkening horizon. By now, the sun had set, and the clouds were rolling in. It was going to rain again, but none of them cared to make camp. Too much had been taken out of them by their recent experience to do much of anything but sit there and stare at Arthur's body which Ivan had laid on the ground.

When the thunder began, though, everyone started to move around. It got really cold at night, and wet clothes would not help them battle it in the least.

They worked around Arthur's body, which didn't seem so grotesque in their mind. To them, every moment Arthur was not under the ground the longer his spirit lived. That and Alfred snapped at anyone who suggested they bury him before they were settled, otherwise doing so would just seem like another chore connected with setting up camp. And Arthur deserved so much more respect than that.

To watch the Briton more closely, Alfred set up his tent near his body, occasionally looking down to check that he was still there. He eventually just settled with sitting down, cross-legged, on the ground and staring at Arthur while Ivan took over the task of pitching their tent because he was so distracted he couldn't do much. Alfred looked at Arthur's face, taking in every little detail, worrying that he may forget what his older brother looked like despite centuries of knowing him. Francis would have gladly joined him, but the Frenchman doubted Alfred would take that kindly. Besides, the younger man needed to be alone with Arthur for a while; that much Francis perceived by his behavior.

When Ivan was finished, he said, "Alfred… we should put him to rest now, da?"

Alfred whipped his head around to look at him, getting to his feet and glaring. "I'll decide when we do that. You have no right to take him away from me!"

Ivan opened his mouth, fully prepared to tell him he would do no such thing, when he saw something move behind Alfred. It got closer as the deaf American continued to chew him out. When the thing lunged toward Alfred, Ivan grabbed hold of him, pulling him away. "Alfred—!"

Ivan stepped backward, tripping over one of the pegs holding the tent down and fell onto his back, Alfred giving a grunt as he collapsed on top of him. Everyone turned around to see what was going on, and Francis couldn't believe his eyes. "Arthur?"

"What?" Alfred rolled off of Ivan and sat up, staring up at the Briton—yes, _up_ , he was standing—blinking in shock. "Artie? You're alive?" When Arthur didn't answer, only stared down at him with myopic eyes, Alfred snapped, "You bastard, why would you fucking fake that?" Alfred got to his feet and pushed Arthur back, completely furious. "You sonofabitch. Why would you do something like that? Do you know how fucking devastated I was? You're such a douche. I hate you!"

Ivan saw something uncharacteristic flash behind Arthur's eyes, and he said, "Alfred… I don't think—"

"Shut up, Ivan. This is my fight!" Alfred growled, and he was distracted enough not to notice Arthur making a lunge toward him again.

"Idiot!" Ivan called, but this time he could not snatch Alfred out of the way in time. The younger man was bowled over by Arthur, and they wrestled for a good amount of time, Alfred a bit shocked at how strong Arthur suddenly was. Alfred found himself beneath him.

"What the hell are you doing, bro? Get the fuck off me!"

Ivan jumped in to help, but when his fingers came within inches of brushing Arthur's shoulders to try and pull him off, the Briton whipped his head around and growled in an unearthly voice, "Stay back!"

Ivan's instincts told him to do just that as quickly as he possibly could, but something was wrong with Arthur, and whatever it was he knew that Alfred was in danger. He lunged forward, intending to wrap his arms around Arthur when he wasn't looking. But the Briton's reflexes were lightning fast, and with a flick of his wrist Arthur put up a force field that flung Ivan (who _never_ got flung) a good yard or two away. Below Arthur, Alfred stopped squirming and watched with wide eyes.

Alfred glanced over in mild concern at Ivan. Meh, he was Russian. He would live. "A-Artie? Bro, are you all right?" When Arthur's gaze snapped back to him—an angry, ruthless gaze—Alfred rattled off, "Dude, I just got a little angry that you fucked with my mind, ya know? Nothing personal. You know I don't hate you, right? Right, Igs?"

But Arthur didn't answer him, only kept staring down at him in a way that made Alfred tense. Those weren't Arthur's eyes. They were green, yes, and topped with those bushy caterpillars he called eyebrows, but there was something in them that he knew Arthur would never show to Alfred himself.

It was hate. A deep, murderous hate. And also an insidious spark of lustful hunger. Alfred didn't want to admit it to himself, but Arthur had _definitely_ won the fight. And on top of that, who knew the Briton could be such a good actor?

Ludwig took a step forward. "You two, stop fooling around. Arthur, get off of him. This isn't like you." The German took another step, and Arthur raised his head so fast, they all flinched.

 _"Stay back,"_ he hissed. Alfred tensed, finally realizing after hearing his voice…

This wasn't Arthur at all.

It was too late, as Arthur leaned down, his face inches from Alfred's own. The American squirmed beneath Arthur's weight, but the older man soon cast a binding spell that had him completely paralyzed. And it scared the absolute shit out of Alfred.

Ivan saw what was happening after he recovered. Good thing he hadn't landed on his wounded side. He rushed toward them. "Get off of him!"

At this, Arthur laughed. A high, rattling laugh that had them all stiffening. He looked directly at Ivan. "Foolish Russia. You know, I used to be so fond of you. No matter what, throughout the centuries you never feared anything. But this Uprising has been your downfall. Or rather _he_ has." He motioned to Alfred, and Ivan's eyes went wide. "Allow me to show you what you've been missing out on for all of your life."

Ivan was at first confused, then braced himself for an attack. Sure enough, he could feel a strong force pierce his mind. Ivan tried to focus and block it out, but the blackness of it was so stifling and the prods so sharp that he couldn't hold the barriers up for very long. Once the thing entered his mind, he knew instantly what it was and tried to fight it. But it delved deep, seizing his memories before he could even land the first blow. The memories were pulled to the forefront of his mind and played back like a tape. First there was he and Alfred having that fight before their little 'war' had ended—with Ivan taking liberties with a completely compliant Alfred against his own personal judgment but purely out of desire—followed by their fight at the terminal, which he felt guilty for, then the sleeping bag incident that started it all, their first _true_ kiss, Alfred's rather forced 'I love you', Ivan holding him in his sleep, comforting him, reassuring him…

Driving a knife through Alfred's skull, blood splattering from the wound, men abducting him, torturing him, raping him, putting fifty bullets in his body before they let him bleed out, naked and used on the floor. The violence got so gruesome, that soon all Ivan could see was a perpetual frame of red. He usually would have not been fazed by this display—more unimpressed—but the scenes got to him and for the first time in his life, Ivan was scared to pieces.

And angry as all hell.

He finally managed to push the loathsome creature from his head (though he suspected it just let him) and he growled, "How dare you intrude upon my memories, tainting them with your lies?" He was disappointed to find that he had an obvious tremor in his voice.

"Lies?" Arthur laughed again. No, that _thing_ laughed. The thing that delighted in the pain and gore of others. "They are only tokens of the future. Tell me, Ivan, how much do you love him? Will your mind finally break for me when his end comes?"

There was no hiding it. Everything was out now. Ivan could feel everyone's eyes on him, and Alfred's own were wide as he also stared at him. But Ivan could give no answer. He was still too shocked from what he had seen that he was incapable of anything more than blinking and breathing. Nothing had gotten to him as much as that had, and as a result he didn't know how to deal with the emotions it brought.

Knowing he would get no answer, the creature taking Arthur as its host leaned down again. Alfred jerked away, but nails dug into his shoulder, locking him in place. Teeth closed around the skin on his neck, and Alfred yelped with alarm. He could feel blood well from the small wound, and a tongue darted out of lap it up. Alfred's stomach churned as Arthur pulled back to a sitting position, testing the blood in his mouth.

Everyone jumped when he turned his head and spat it out.

"Not witchblood," he hissed, then looked down at Alfred again. "And rather dim as well. You are useless to me." Then his voice lowered. "But your lover isn't. Though he needs some breaking, I can tell. There are so many fun ways I can toy with you that will have him on his knees, screaming—"

Ivan had had enough. Rage filled him, and he held out a hand in the creature's direction.

He drew his power to his core and focused on the action in his mind, as saying it aloud would alert the creature. A great gust of wind blasted from his palm and sent Arthur flying onto his back a few feet away. Alfred took the opportunity to get to his feet and back into the safety of the rest of the group.

Arthur growled and attempted to find his footing and rush at Alfred, but Ivan wouldn't allow it. With another unspoken word and a snap of his fingers he erected tall bars of solid ice conjured from the freezing of moisture in the air that trapped the creature inside a frigid ring. But the wound in Ivan's side gave a sharp sting of pain that made him grit his teeth, and his focus on holding the spell wavered. Arthur didn't even move, only glared at the ice and it shattered into a million frosty shards, scattering at his feet.

It gave another laugh. "Your efforts are folly. Arthur may not have used up all of his energy conjuring that wall of flame, but I certainly will. By the time I'm through he will be dead, and I will have this body all to myself."

 _Artie's still alive._ Alfred stared and couldn't believe it. The fucker had decided to nearly kill himself saving them and now he'd gone and got possessed?

The creature held out Arthur's hands, obviously preparing to launch a formidable attack. Ivan did the same, but he aimed for defense. Arthur may not be able to control his functions at the moment, but Ivan certainly could. And since he was a mortal now, he had to be very careful about how much energy he burned away on this. He would only defend until the creature had run itself ragged, but that was a risk—Arthur could very well die in the process. As in every situation like this, Ivan decided to spin the cylinder on his figurative revolver. Six chambers, one bullet.

He figured he had a pretty good chance.

And then, as if puppet's strings pulled him back, Arthur dropped his hands and swayed. He stumbled a bit, caught himself, and looked at Ivan. The Russian was about to try and subdue him, but then he remembered that in doing so he could hurt or kill Arthur, who was defenseless, trapped somewhere inside.

The thing dropped to its knees and crouched there, panting for a minute, grunting, fighting something internally. Arthur's hands clenched and unclenched in the dirt. Gilbert began to move forward as if to subdue him, but Ivan said, "Stop," and a stern look had Gilbert falling back in line.

Alfred watched with worry. _Come on, Artie. I know you're in there. Fight, goddammit. Who do you think taught me how?_

Francis forgot to blink. "Arthur?" he ventured hopefully.

"… ible… Bible!" Arthur gasped out, his face red and straining as he fought to keep the creature from taking over again. He looked at the person closest to his pack, which was laying an unfortunately good distance outside of camp and said, "In my pack… a Bible. Get it… hurry!" He knew no magic could kill this thing, and that scared him. Magic had always been his defense and now it was all but useless.

Kiku took off running, his heart pounding as he rummaged through the pack, every second that he was looking, every sound of Arthur's labored breathing, making his fingers tremble with anxiety. He eventually found it, an older, small book, with a torn brown cover and gold writing on the front.

"Here!" Kiku tossed it to Yao, who in turn shoved it to Matthew, and further down the line it went at lightning speed until it reached Gilbert, who stood closest to the struggling Arthur.

"You have to tell us what to do, Arthur," the Prussian said with obvious frustration.

Arthur's lungs felt like they were caving in, his head was throbbing, and he knew he didn't have long before he'd be stuck under that spotlight in his mind again. "Demon… page b-bookmarked… br-bright red tab…"

Gilbert raised an eyebrow as he flicked through the Bible to the referenced page. So, Arthur had been prepared for this? The Briton must have known that he was playing with fire… or so to speak.

Everyone held their breaths as Gilbert reached the page, and he frowned. "It's in Latin…" He opened his mouth to speak the words written, but Ivan held out a hand.

"Nyet! This is a very powerful exorcism rite. If the words are pronounced wrong, just a little, we could give the demon control or kill Arthur."

"Who here knows Latin well?" Gilbert asked, but no one responded. "There has to be someone!"

Lovino stepped forward and snatched the Bible from Gilbert's pale hands, his own shaking with fright. "I-I can, d-dammit." Then he looked at Arthur.

"Do you know anything a-about the d-demon that we can use?"

Arthur wheezed and managed to get out, "Agramon," before collapsing into the dirt. Not a moment later, he picked himself up, panting. He lifted his head, his hateful eyes boring into everyone around him.

"Hm, Arthur does have nice power, and I wouldn't mind keeping him for fun~

"Too bad his damned mouth has done him in."

* * *

Translations:

Je t'aimerai toujours, ma belle-I will always love you, my beautiful one.

A Word From the Writer: So sad! England dying is a pretty big thing, plus I like to make America cry. He needs to just cry sometimes, ya know? XD Okay, so a whole mindfuck of stuff is happening here: A, England used too much magic to the point of near death, B, Because he used so much and became so weak, he is now possessed by a demon and getting his freak on, C America and Russia's relationship is now exposed. Ah, I love clustering all this stuff together. So, now we know the source of England's freaky dreams and actions in the past few chapters; whatever he did in the past, it's certainly caught up with him now, and it's certainly doing more than biting him in the ass. The possession surprising much? Hmm, somewhat. And is it surprising that I chose Russia as the other magic-user? Considering his history (which involves much early dabbling with witchcraft), not really. And you got a nice little magic showdown. But not even Russia can win by himself against something that can get inside his head and scare him _that_ much. Because that was really fucking freaky. Then again, I do enjoy writing freaky stuff...

Let's see if Romano can't fuck shit up for once.


	62. The Weight of Fear

**Talk about getting inside someone's head.  
**

Warning: Angst, violence, demonic forces, an exorcism, Spamano, religious stuff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**The Weight of Fear**

"Agramon?" Gilbert muttered in confusion. "What the hell does that mean?"

"It's a demon name," Lovino told him, recalling his studies on demonology in the Vatican centuries ago. "A very powerful one. The demon possessing the tea freak is named Agramon. It will better help us attack it directly…"

"Uh, don't you mean you?" Alfred corrected and Lovino glared at him. He put up his hands in defense. "Hey, dude, I may be a hero and all, but I don't do demons… or ghosts, but demons especially. Anyway, just make sure you get rid of it, 'kay, man?" He subconsciously rubbed the spot on his neck where Arthur had bitten him and shivered.

Lovino turned back to Agramon, who was laughing and moving toward him. "I am a greater demon of Hell. I sit at the feet of my master, the Horned One," He flashed Alfred a lopsided grin. "Old Scratch (1)."

Alfred stiffened as he felt the bite on his neck sting.

The demon then directed his sinister gaze to Lovino. "You cannot dispatch me so easily. I have lived for as long as man has walked the earth and I know every of his faults. And now that I have a warlock as a host, I am more powerful than perhaps I have ever been. Do your worst, though you and I know full well I will prevail. Fear always does."

Lovino lowered his eyes, unable to look into the demon's own, swallowing dryly as he fingered the thin pages of the Bible in his hand, his heart pounding. Suddenly, he heard fast feet approaching, and he looked up to see Agramon rushing toward him. Lovino gave a yelp and stumbled back before remembering what rested against his chest. He reached into his shirt and pulled out the cross that was linked to a chain around his neck and brandished it at Agramon. The demon gave a hiss and backed away, but it continued to pace a few feet away like a tiger in a cage—too close for comfort.

Agramon growled and tried to launch a magical attack at Lovino, but every time he summoned the power to do so, Ivan disrupted his concentration with a sharp jab of his mind. Lovino watched them strain as they dueled mentally with each other, and Ivan managed to say through clenched teeth, "Do it!"

Lovino looked down at the tabbed page and took a deep breath through his nose and exhaled through his mouth. He needed to be calm for this, for the victim, or else everything and anything could go wrong. That had been one of his first lessons. Yet he had not performed an exorcism in a while and not nearly with such high stakes.

He pressed the cross to his lips. _Toni, keep me strong._ He remembered when he had gotten the cross around his neck. As a child, Antonio had given it to him as a gift. "Always remember," the Spaniard had told him. "in even the most troubling of times, He will help you. Don't take this off, Lovino, ever, for me."

And he never had.

He then concentrated on reading the words on the page in front of him. He looked down, focusing all of his being on this, trusting Ivan (like he had never trusted him before) to keep him safe while he was reading the rites.

Then he began, the Latin rattling off his tongue in a smooth, unwavering tone. _"O God, creator and defender of the human race, look upon this Your servant, whom You did make in Your own image and call to share in Your glory…. Hear, holy Father, the cry of the Church suppliant: let not Your child be possessed by the father of lies…"_

Agramon's eyes widened and he shook his head, as if trying to rid his ears of annoying mosquitoes. He continued to hold his own, however, against Ivan.

He continued, _"…_ _let not Your servant, whom Christ has redeemed by His blood, to be held in the captivity of the demon Agramon; let not a temple of Your Spirit be inhabited by the unclean spirit. Hear, O merciful God, the prayers of the blessed Virgin Mary, whose Son, dying upon the Cross, crushed the head of the serpent of old and entrusted all men to His mother as sons…"_

At his name, Agramon gave an inhuman screech and clapped his hands to his ears. "I will not let you expel me with the name of the Prince of Lies, son of the False God. I will not!" He gave a grunt as Ivan managed to get a good blow in, but he quickly pressed back, making Ivan stagger a bit.

Lovino fought to keep himself composed, but he was losing it. Agramon was staggering ever closer to him, and he longed to take his eyes off the page to see where he was. But then a comforting warmth came over him followed by the scent of freshly-sliced tomatoes. Lovino didn't flinch or stiffen when he felt someone wrap their arms around him from behind. Lips brushed his ear.

_"Keep going,"_

It was Toni.

Lovino breathed in his scent and felt braver, more powerful. He continued on, Agramon jerking and writhing where he stood, shrieking with every mention of Christ or God or his own name. And then he came to the part he had been dreading since the beginning:

_"God of freedom and grace, break the bonds of iniquity. Hear, O God, lover of man's salvation, free this servant from every alien power…"_

His hands were beginning to shake; one gripping his cross in a vicelike manner, and the other holding the Holy Book. This was where he had to encounter the demon, force it from Arthur's mind. He took a deep breath and willed his limbs to stillness. He let his spirit detach from him, extend toward the mess that was Arthur. He soon arrived at the barriers, Arthur's as well as Ivan's presence detectable.

_"I adjure you, Agramon, enemy of man's salvation, acknowledge the justice and goodness of God the Father, who by just judgment has damned your pride and envy: depart from this servant of God, whom the Lord has made in His own image, adorned with His gifts, and has mercifully adopted as His child."_

At this, Agramon cackled, his voice booming in the recesses of Arthur's mind. _"He is no son of God. He has taken up God's work, manipulated nature. He is more demon than holy man. You cannot free him who chooses to meddle with the dark forces, the powers of Hell."_

Despite this, Agramon's barriers wavered just enough for Lovino to slip through. Ivan kept up his attacks in order to divert the demon's attention away from the invading Italian.

It was very dark in Arthur's mind whereas it would be alight with thought if he wasn't possessed. Lovino could feel the pressure of Agramon's compressing force as he tried to keep Arthur contained. But Lovino could still feel Arthur's presence, and he let that be his guide through the deep recesses of his mind.

Then, Lovino saw light, and he ran toward it, stopping when he saw someone sitting in the center of it.

"Arthur?"

The Briton raised his head, pale and a little worse for wear. "Lovino?"

Agramon's voice boomed then. _"He is mine. Why save what is already half dead?"_ The black tendrils holding Arthur captive tightened around him. Lovino watched in horror as the tentacles flashed a glowing red, electricity sparking from them, and Arthur gasped, slumping lower as his strength was sapped from him.

Lovino still felt Antonio holding him despite being inside Arthur's head. He drew from him strength and light and love that the demon would never know. He grabbed his cross and held it out to Arthur as he walked closer. His footprints left smoking trails behind him, and Agramon hissed in pain.

_"I adjure Satan, source of your succor, Prince of this world, acknowledge the power and strength of Jesus Christ, who conquered you in the desert, overcame you in the garden, despoiled you on the Cross, and rising from the tomb, transferred your victims to the kingdom of light."_

The tendrils quivered as he neared them. He extended his cross and touched it to the binding limbs. _"Be gone!"_

The tentacles screamed and retreated, an angry red mark smoking where Lovino had touched one with the cross. Arthur dropped to the ground, naked and weak.

Lovino quickly stooped to pick him up, and nearly dropped him. He was completely limp.

"Get up, dammit."

Arthur groaned and managed to get his feet under him. His limbs were shaky, and he looked extremely pale. "L-Lovino, I'm going to—"

Lovino barely caught him, and the hand holding his cross touched Arthur's skin. The Briton jerked in his arms and screamed. The smell of burned flesh reached Lovino's nostrils, and he looked down to see that the cross had left a bright red mark on Arthur's shoulder. He let Arthur lean against him as he removed it.

Arthur looked up at him with glazed eyes. He looked half dead. "I can't touch it…"

"I know, dammit," Lovino said and wrapped an arm around the Briton. "Work with me a little, uh?"

Arthur started to move his feet, though slowly, as they ambled along in the dark. Lovino was looking for the fissure in the barriers of Arthur's mind where he had entered, but he soon found that it had closed up.

_He knows._

Agramon's form manifested out of smoke before them, taking up the from of a large, hooded snake. _"You cannot save him with the cross, ignorant mortal. He is of the Black Blood. His soul belongs to Hell."_

Lovino scowled. "I can't save him with it, but I can certainly hurt you with it, bastard!" He held out the cross, and the giant snake hissed before evaporating in a puff of yellow smoke. It drifted toward them, making their throats itch and their lungs struggled for air.

Lovino coughed and led Arthur out of the choking cloud. It was so vast that he was sure Antonio had been responsible for guiding them out. He could practically feel his former lover's hand on his shoulder.

When he could speak again, Lovino continued, " _I adjure you, Agramon, deceiver of the human race, acknowledge the Spirit of truth and grace, who repels your snares and confounds your lies: depart from this creature of God, whom He has signed by the heavenly seal; withdraw from this man, Arthur, whom God has made a holy temple by a spiritual unction."_

A piercing shriek tore through the recesses of Arthur's mind. Lovino and Arthur cried out, covering their ears. Everything began to shake.

_"He is not holy, false exorcist. God damned him when he turned his back on him to join my Master's legion of black sorcerers. There is no saving him. He is already mine!"_

A wall of flame erupted, ripping toward them with lightning speed. Arthur was too weak to scream, and with every flicker of fire he felt his body drift more and more into the void—the very place he had been when Agramon had found him. If he passed out now, the pain and endless fatigue would end for him. But so would his life.

 _I died once._ Arthur thought defiantly. _I'm sure as hell not dying again._

Lovino pulled Arthur with him to the barriers of his mind once again. He banged against them, trying desperately to find a way out. He turned around and saw that the flames were a few feet away, the heat enough to melt his eyeballs if he looked too long.

And then there was a booming shout, a single spoken word that was unfamiliar to even Arthur but what sounded very old and filled with magical energy. As they watched, a long crack bulleted down the wall. At another word, it split inward, and Lovino and Arthur had to duck to avoid blasts of magic.

 _"Run through,"_ Ivan's voice drifted to them on the other side. _"I'll hold him off. Go!"_

Ivan sensed the two rush through the barriers, and Agramon pursued them, but the Russian didn't let him get far. Enchanted vines shot up from the depths of Arthur's mind and wrapped around the demon's consciousness, tugging it back. The thing screeched and launched a vicious attack at him, but Arthur had escaped Agramon's clutches and he could not draw strength from him anymore. The mortal world was no place for a demon—that was why they lived and thrived beneath the earth. Without a soul to occupy (as they had none of their own), they could not survive on the surface. Agramon was very powerful, yes, but he was only powerful if he had a vessel through which to implement his energy.

Ivan knew when to let up when he saw Arthur's visage change. His face became pallid and his eyes returned to their normal hue. He staggered and fell to his knees. Alfred rushed forward to help, but Francis held him back. The older man had seen exorcisms. Many. And this one was not over.

Lovino came back to himself and he was trembling considerably. He thought he would surely die in the flames, and if he had his soul would have been trapped forever. He fumbled, nearly dropping the Bible, and then he felt Antonio's warm breath on his neck.

_"Almost there, Lovi. Keep going. Don't stop."_

Lovino took a deep breath and said, _"Leave, therefore, Agramon, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit."_ He walked toward Arthur, who was grunting and straining, shifting between Agramon's unholy growls and his own exhausted voice. When Arthur saw Lovino's feet, he looked up, eyes wide, expecting.

"Do it, Lovino. He's coming."

At this, Lovino hastily took his cross and dug the sharp end into his arm. He grunted and blood welled out of the scar. He dabbed his finger in it and dotted Arthur's forehead with the blood.

 _"Take this blood of the holy, a servant and vessel of God, and let you be gone from this man whose body you have so harshly occupied."_ Lovino dabbed both Arthur's eyelids, then his lips with his blood. _"Be gone!"_

Arthur's eyes were closed in concentration, his face twisted with the battle he was currently fighting inside his own head. Inside, he and Agramon chased each other in circles, his mind so dark and foggy with magic that they could not see each other. But they certainly _could_ hear. The fog crackled with magical energy as they neared, closer and closer…

And then Arthur opened his eyes.

The pupils were slit like a cat's.

Lovino took a couple steps back as Agramon took over. The demon was too weak to move, but the Italian could feel the barriers of his own mind being breached. He hurried to say the last rites. The words came out in a rush.

_"Leave through the faith and the prayer of the Church; leave through the sign of the holy Cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns forever and ever. Amen."_

Agramon was thrown onto his back by some unseen force, writhing and screeching on the ground. Arthur's limbs twisted in every grotesque manner, and Feliciano was crying harder than ever.

_"No!"_

Arthur's mental shout was so loud, everyone could hear it on the air. A moment later, Arthur regained control and sat up, trembling as he tried to pry Agramon from his mind. Finally, he expelled the demon from his head, but it wasn't finished yet. Demons rarely went down so easily. Lovino watched with horror as he saw what looked to be a hand slide across Arthur's cheek just under the skin.

"No!" Arthur shouted again, and finally decided to use whatever little strength he had left to expel the creature from his mind. It was just enough to do so, and Agramon immediately launched himself toward the closest mind: Lovino's.

With his energy already so drained from the exorcism, Lovino knew he would not be able to fight Agramon off. All he could do was stand there and stare as he felt energy rushing toward him.

Ivan yelled something in Old Slavic and snapped his fingers. Sparks shot toward Agramon and lit up his invisible body with prominent volts of violet energy. The demon screamed and writhed in the air for a moment before being taken by force back into the fiery realm from whence he came. And they all stood there, panting, trembling, waking from a nightmare.

No one moved until Arthur collapsed face-first into the dirt.

* * *

No translations

References:

(1) 'Old Scratch' was another name for the Devil in colonial New England. Basically pulled this term from "The Devil and Tom Walker" by Washington Irving, who in turn had pulled the story from the German legend of Faust. Writers tend to borrow a lot.

A Word From the Writer: Goddammit, another "Did England live or not?" cliffhanger. Annoying, I know. But I have to build suspense! Anyway, I don't know Latin nor was I willing to translate, so let's pretend the italics are spoken in Latin. Besides, you understand more this way. I'm not a particularly religious person, so I really just looked up some random exorcism rites online. Forget where I got them... sorry. I like using demons, though. They're fun to work with and since no one has ever really seen any, there can be many speculations to how they might look, act, and sound. Agramon is a demon of fear, if you didn't glean that from the text, and, boy, was he fun to write! I just like supernatural stuff, what can I say? On another note, I couldn't really find any words in Old Slavic, so imagine what they might sound like if Russia were saying them. And... Spain! I just love bringing him back up, just to fuck with Romano's head.

Another thing... ERG, my mind is full of FLOOF. Next weekend. NEXT WEEKEND, I will be going on the campus tour. NEXT WEEKEND DEFINITELY UNLESS THE WORLD BLOWS UP OR SHIT GOES DOWN IN MY LIFE. LOL, it's a wonder I can even keep up with this plot. So, next Sunday I will be posting.

And it's finally happened. The admins on FF have taken down five of my fics, but I included the links in my profile to get decent traffic. I'm not surprised nor am I especially disappointed. The fics were finished and I had them up for longer than I hoped the admins would allow. So... yeah, I has sad, but Imma keep writing and posting. I am very glad that I made an account here in case something went wrong and I lost all my fics, and I am grateful for Ao3's acceptation of explicit fics (which, quite honestly, make up a huge part of fanfiction). And I will definitely post NEXT SUNDAY. DEFINITELY. X3


	63. Things More Precious

**Sometimes you just need a little fluff to make things better, y'know?  
**

Warning: Angst, supernatural stuff, RusAme, Nichu, and Prumano.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Things More Precious**

"Artie," Alfred rushed toward him and rolled him over. Arthur was as pale as a sheet, and his breath was rattling enough to cause concern. The Briton stared right up at him, blinking a few times before raising himself on his elbows and gagging.

"Artie?"

"Get away,"

Alfred moved back a foot or so, knowing Arthur's tone meant that he didn't want him to get hurt. But Agramon was gone, right? Why was he—

Arthur gagged again, and a black, lumpy substance poured out of his mouth. It looked like tar, but it did not reflect the moonlight. Arthur coughed a bit and wiped his mouth, sitting back and watching the gelatinous pile of black goo.

"W-what the hell is that shit?" Lovino asked with disgust.

"Residue left over from the demon's magic," Arthur breathed. "Had to get it out. Would have poisoned my bloodstream…" He looked up at Alfred who was watching the goo curiously. "Don't touch it. It could kill you."

"Then get away from it, dumbass," Alfred joked and Arthur crawled shakily over to him. But he couldn't hold himself up for long. So much of his energy had been used that all he could do without getting tired was blink and breathe.

Alfred pulled Arthur to him, putting the Briton's head in his lap. There were tears in his eyes. "Why did you do that? You're so stupid, Art. You didn't have to save us."

"I'm not going to be lectured by some American git," Arthur snapped with a small smile. "I did what I had to. And I'm sorry I put you through that, but… I forgot how much weaker I am now. I really wasn't thinking."

Alfred blinked. "You saw everything?" A blush was trailing across his cheeks.

Arthur nodded. "Well, heard it more like." His eyes traveled to Francis who was watching him from a few feet away. "Je te remercie de m'aimer _._ "

 _Thank you for loving me._ Francis's eyes filled with tears. "Toujours, cher _._ "

Alfred watched the exchange with a frown. He looked to Mattie for some sort of translation, but the Canadian only gave a watery smile and shook his head. _Don't be nosy, Al._

 _Fine._ He looked back down at Arthur. "Are you able to stand?"

"Unable to even move I think," Arthur replied and looked at Lovino. "Lovino, come here."

Lovino was apprehensive, but he walked over and knelt down. Arthur took his hand and squeezed. "Thank you, lad. You did such a great job." He looked over at Ivan, who was standing, panting, a few feet away. "You as well."

 _"You did so well, Lovi."_ Antonio murmured in Lovino's ear. _"I am so proud. I want you to be happy, don't worry about me. I love you."_

 _I love you, too, Toni._ Lovino's eyes stung with tears as he felt the Spaniard's presence leave him. He cleared his throat. "Toni helped a little with it… dammit."

Ivan made his way over, and everyone else followed suit. If the Russian deemed it safe to get closer, then they would do so as well.

"How did that demon get into you?" he asked. "There is a reason why demons follow people, and I do not think it was because one of your black magic spells went wrong."

"It's a long story," Arthur sighed. "But I'll make it short for the sake of saving time. I worked as an exorcist in the 19th century. Well, mostly for harnessing the demons' power instead of banishing them." Arthur began. "I frequented cemeteries to do this. There was this one time that I confronted this mausoleum. When I was finished and left the graveyard, I thought that I could feel a presence following me. I could never see it, but I could feel it. I did some research and found that the mausoleum held the bodies of a family of eight who were the victims of an axe murder. The father chopped his wife and seven children up into little bits and hung the bloody bags in his butcher shop. He tried to sell them as ground meat, but, well, people suspected something.

"Soon the whole town knew and arrived at his house, ripping him limb from limb with their bare hands. They tossed his body into the river. That _thing_ —whom I now know as the demon Agramon—was feeding off the evil of the crime pervading the mausoleum and then I allowed the family members' souls inside to be freed. In doing so, I also released him, and he followed me for some time." He paused, taking time to gather his breath and swallow. "I began to draw spirit circles around myself at night, put up wards so that he never got to me. I did this every night ever since the day that I had attracted his attention. I knew what he wanted; I am a powerful warlock and he could do a great deal of damage with me if he managed to get hold of my body. The ritual of protection became routine, but I guess I forgot to keep it up once the Uprising happened.

"He has been the one who has been keeping me awake at night. First it was nightmares about killing everyone and myself… then it was my family. Then I kept seeing visions when I was awake. He'd take over sometimes and I would snap to a few minutes later, not remembering what had happened or how I had gotten where I was."

"Why didn't you tell anyone?" Gilbert asked.

Arthur shook his head. "If I did then Agramon surely would have used me to kill anyone I told. I knew something was going on, but I had forgotten about the demon. So, when I used my energy to light that fire in the field… I passed into the void. It's the place all magic users go when they have expended so much energy that they cannot live. It is not a natural death, so I could not go to heaven or hell. I was trapped there, and then I met Agramon. It's silly to say it, but if it weren't for him taking over I would not be alive. He pulled me out of the void and took advantage of my weak mind to possess me and use my power."

Alfred looked sternly down at him. "Don't ever do that again, you hear me? You have no right to put yourself in danger if I can't. Who's going to keep telling me not to, huh? Who's going to nag me to stand up straight and stop talking so loud and think before I do stuff and—" Tears ran down his cheeks and dropped onto Arthur's face.

Arthur laughed softly and cupped Alfred's cheek. "Stupid yank. Can't even think without me." But his eyes were wet as well. "I'll always be here, okay?"

Alfred covered the hand on his cheek with his own. Ivan cleared his throat after a moment and said, "Arthur needs rest, da? Let us finish setting up camp. I can feel some rain starting to fall."

Alfred looked up at him, and he remembered what Agramon had revealed about them and blushed. "Uh, yeah, ahem… I-I think I'll stay here with him in case something happens…"

"Go and set up, git, I'll be fine. I'm not a child to be fussed over," Arthur snapped, back to his bad-tempered self.

Alfred decided he didn't want Arthur to tire himself further by arguing with him, so he stood. He could feel everyone's eyes on him and he really didn't know what to do. He rubbed his neck.

Ivan rolled his eyes. Everyone knew now, there was no reason to hide it. He took Alfred's hand and pulled him away from the group. Alfred spluttered and tried to wrench his hand free, blushing furiously, but Ivan's grip was vicelike.

"Be still, Alfred," Ivan growled, and Alfred stopped struggling, looking up at him.

"Ivan, I don't think I—"

"Da, you can," Ivan told him. "We can. If anyone bothers you about it, I will punch them in the face, da?"

Alfred's eyes widened. "Dude, you don't have to—"

"Then what do you want me to say, Alfred?"

Alfred sighed and lowered his eyes. "I dunno…" His hand went back to his neck again.

"Let me see that," Ivan frowned as he pulled Alfred's hand away. He grabbed Alfred's chin and tilted it upward. Arthur's bite mark was still there, red and swollen—no, Agramon's. Worry went through his mind and also a twinge of anger—how dare someone hurt what was his?

"What does it look like?" Alfred asked, finally getting what he was looking at.

"Be still," Ivan told him, and Alfred stiffened. Ivan pressed his thumb to the wound and passed a volt into the bite to rid Alfred's body of whatever Agramon might have given him. Alfred jerked, yelping. Ivan held him as his legs shook. When Alfred looked up at him, his face was flushed and his eyes were hooded.

"Ivan," Alfred groaned. The action had felt strangely arousing. He didn't know what Ivan did, but whatever it was had certainly turned him on.

Ivan just stared, knowing full well what was going on. In that brief moment, their energies had touched—and they had matched each other in intensity. This was the proof Ivan needed after centuries of watching and hoping: they were meant to be together.

Ivan leaned in and kissed him. Alfred's eyes closed and he lost himself in the moment even though he knew he should rightfully be aware of those who were watching. He didn't seem to care anymore.

There were no wolf whistles or cat calls, no embarrassing commands. The rest of the group just stared, most of them wishing they had the courage to do the same. Intimate moments were too rare to spoil nowadays.

 _I knew it,_ Francis thought and he looked to Matthew. The Canadian had always been good at sensing relationships. Matthew caught his questioning gaze and smiled with knowing. _That's my boy._

Arthur couldn't keep a smile off his lips. _Finally, you ignorant sod. You couldn't see it before?_ And then he laughed inwardly. _Well, I guess you got it from me._ He glanced at Francis and the Frenchman beamed down at him.

Ivan and Alfred parted. "Never leave me," Ivan said. So many had left him before.

Alfred intertwined their fingers. "I won't, you sappy commie."

Ivan squeezed his hand. "I will be whatever you want me to be."

And that just made Alfred feel guilty.

* * *

Kiku was sitting at the mouth of the tent, sheltered from the rain pouring down outside. He was staring up at the sky, watching the clouds move over the moon. The wind blew and some of the rain coated his face. He shivered, pulling his coat further around himself.

So much had happened in the past few weeks than he would have ever imagined. History happened slowly and over the course of many years, decades, but this… this was unbelievably fast. Who knew what would happen next? One day they all might be here, and the next one of them would be gone or two or three or all—the appearance of the Organization members and Arthur's possession was plenty proof that anything and everything could go wrong in a matter of seconds. What did that mean for him? He was rather old… how long would it be before he slipped up, before his senses became dull enough to get him killed?

Arms wrapped around him from behind, and Kiku's back melded into a warm, bare chest. "What is wrong, my yīnghuā?"

Kiku sighed and his breath came out as mist against the cold. "How long will we be able to keep this up, Yao-chan?"

"Don't think about that," Yao told him, planting soft kisses down his neck.

Kiku pulled away from him and turned around to face him. "We can't ignore that we may not have that much time left."

Yao kissed him on the lips. "Then let's make the most of it."

Kiku let Yao lead him back into the tent. Then Kiku was beneath him, and Yao was kissing him like he would never be able to kiss him again.

* * *

Gilbert listened to Lovino's breathing as he lay beside him in his sleeping bag. It wasn't getting any shallower, and he was sure that he heard Lovino swallow a couple of times.

Gilbert sat up and looked down at him. "I know that was some freaky shit that happened today, but you can't let it keep you up. You need your sleep."

Lovino just kept staring at the top of the tent, not saying anything. Gilbert sighed and slipped into Lovino's sleeping bag. He wrapped his arms around the Italian and only then noticed that Lovino was crying quietly.

"I love him," Lovino muttered before Gilbert could ask. "I love him so much. He was so close—I could smell him, feel him…"

Gilbert frowned in confusion, feeling jealousy spark in him. "Who?"

Lovino looked at him, tears sliding down his cheeks. "Toni. He was with me during the exorcism. He helped me." He took a deep, quivering breath. "He told me that he wanted me to be happy and not to worry about him. But I love the bastard. How could I not worry about him? Why should I be happy when he's so far away?"

"Oh, Lovino," Gilbert said, taking him into his arms. "Are you sad right now? Guilty?"

A few more tears escaped Lovino's eyes. "S-si, dammit, what do you think…?"

"Then you are not what Toni wants you to be."

Lovino sniffed. "It feels so wrong."

That struck a hard blow in Gilbert, but he tried his best not to let it show. He wiped the tears from Lovino's face with his thumbs. "You love me, right?"

Lovino nodded.

"And loving me makes you happy?"

Lovino pushed his hands away and scoffed. "I know what you're trying to do."

Gilbert blinked. "What?"

Lovino smirked. "Get some ass."

Gilbert smiled, then asked rather awkwardly, "Do you want to… make love? It seems to help you feel better…" It was the truth, but he definitely sounded like a horny bastard. Which he was, but it seemed an insensitive thing to be at the moment. He hoped it didn't come across that way… and at the same time he wanted Lovino to pick up on it just a _little._

Lovino shook his head. "No, I just… a lot has happened today, and I'm tired. Could you… just hold me?—dammit."

Lovino's blush was so cute. Gilbert pulled the Italian flush against his front, Lovino's back to him, Gilbert's arm wrapped snugly around him. The Prussian's breath was warm and comforting against Lovino's neck.

"You don't have to worry anymore, Lovino," Gilbert muttered. "I will take care of you now. I promise both you and Toni that."

Lovino reached down and weaved his fingers through Gilbert's. "You know I can't take you seriously when you turn all fucking sappy, right?"

Gilbert smiled. "I know, but you asked for it."

* * *

Translations:

Toujours-Always

A Word From the Writer: Romano, give Prussia a chance. He's trying to be romantic when he has a boner-shit's hard! And, all right, finally some real RusAme fluff. And Nichu is moving along nicely... Then ya got good ol' Prumano just as bitchy as ever. Yet, somehow, it works.  
Guess England better get to drawing those spirit circles again, huh?

Tonight's the night for l'amour~! I had an urge to write some smut. So, onward to smut!


	64. Don't Wake Me Up

**More fluffy stuffs. X3  
**

Warning: Angst, lemon (like some legit smut), oral, fluff, GerIta, TurCan, FrUK, and RusAme.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Don't Wake Me Up**

Feliciano couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes he saw the possessed Arthur lashing out at him, or flames engulfing him, killing him. Whimpering, he crawled over to Ludwig, who was sound asleep across the tent and shook his shoulder.

"Ludwig… L-Ludwig… wake up, ve."

Ludwig flinched and opened his eyes. He turned over to see Feliciano leaning over him looking like he was about to cry.

"What is it, Feli?"

Feliciano burst into tears. "I'm so s-scared! I can't sleep." He dissolved to sobs.

"Oh, Feli…" Ludwig gave a withering sigh, pulled the Italian's hands from his face, and lifted his chin so that they met eyes. "Everything is okay now. Nothing will get us."

"But they will!" Feliciano cried. "They always will, and we won't know until they're right behind us, ve!"

"Nein, they won't." He took Feliciano's hands in his and rubbed his thumbs over the trembling knuckles. "Not as long as I'm here." Feliciano kept crying, and Ludwig said without fully meaning to, "You want to know why I would protect you from anything?" He was uneasy about where this was going, nervous… but he couldn't stand waiting anymore. He had to initiate something or else Feliciano would never get it and they might never have what Ludwig wanted them to have for so long.

Feliciano looked up and sniffled. "W-what, Ludwig?"

This was his chance. He took hold of Feliciano's upper arm and pulled him in so that their lips met. Feliciano's eyes went wide and he squirmed a bit before they parted.

"L-Ludwig?" He was looking at him like a lost puppy.

"You're such a dummkopf," Ludwig sighed, looking away. "I love you, Feli. I have for so long. Why haven't you seen that?"

Feliciano blinked at him. "I… I have."

Ludwig was shocked, then furious. He grabbed Feliciano by both shoulders and shook him. "Well why didn't you ever say anything?"

"I was scared!" Feliciano began to cry again. "I-I didn't want our friendship to be ruined if we didn't work out… I'm sorry, ve."

Ludwig took Feliciano into his arms and crushed him to his chest. "Why would you think that I would hate you if it didn't work? I'll always be your friend, Feli, but I need something more." He licked his lips, his mouth going a little dry, as he added, "Will you take this chance with me?"

Feliciano went silent for a moment, his face buried in Ludwig's shoulder. Then he moved back enough to kiss the German. The act caught Ludwig off guard.

"Si," Feliciano said. "I will. I love you too, Ludwig."

Ludwig smiled and kissed him back, their fingers lacing. When they parted, Feliciano blushing cutely, Ludwig said, "So, do you think you will be able to sleep now?"

Feliciano shook his head, and Ludwig frowned. "No… I want to sleep with you."

Ludwig lifted his sleeping bag, pleasantly surprised at the request. "Get in, then."

Feliciano smiled and slid into the bag. When he was settled, Ludwig followed suit. A strong arm closed around the Italian, and a chest pressed against his back. Feliciano sighed happily.

Ludwig kissed him on his cheek and murmured, "Goodnight, meine liebe."

But Feliciano was already sound asleep.

* * *

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine," Sadiq insisted. He was a little battered and bruised but other than that he was perfectly healthy. Well, maybe his ankle was a little sorer than before, but the splint had been fixed and it was all good now.

Matthew shook his head. "Today was hell."

Sadiq smiled. "Well… except for us."

Matthew looked up at him and mirrored his expression, though a light dusting of pink coated his cheeks. "Yeah…"

Awkward silence.

"I'm sorry I let those men touch you." Sadiq hadn't gotten the chance to throttle them all before Seth had wrestled him to the ground, and now he was sorely wishing he had the chance to feel his hands wrapped around their throats.

"It wasn't your fault."

"I kissed you… I distracted you. I should have chosen another time—"

"Didn't we already talk about this when we were tied up?"

Sadiq stopped and pulled his hood further over his eyes. "Want to try that kiss again?"

Matthew grabbed his hand. "I don't think we need to _try_."

This time Sadiq drew Matthew in and pressed their lips together. Matthew stiffened, but eventually responded in kind, his arms going around Sadiq's neck, pulling at his hood.

Sadiq pulled back. "I don't think… I'm ready for that just yet."

"For what?" Matthew asked breathlessly. His blush was so cute.

"My face," Sadiq said, knowing it sounded stupid. "I've never let anyone see it." _Except for Greece…_ Sadiq thought, his mind going back to the night they had first made love and he had let Heracles see him. It was some of the best sex he'd ever had—and the longest relationship, too. His throat became scratchy as he remembered and he struggled to keep his composure.

"Oh," Matthew said, a little disappointed and it showed. "What do I have to do?"

"Stay with me," Sadiq replied. "It will happen, but we have to be sure we love each other. What happened today between us… it was so sudden." _Jeez, I can't believe me of all people is wanting to take it slow._ But, honestly, it was Matthew. And Matthew deserved a loving relationship, not a rushed fuck. Now especially was not the time to make any mistakes. They couldn't afford to.

Matthew blinked, not expecting Sadiq to be so… considerate. His blush deepened, and he could feel it burning on his face. "O-okay… it probably wouldn't be a good idea to go all the way anyway with your ankle and my knee."

Sadiq chuckled. "Damn straight," He kissed Matthew again. "I want you to do it when I happens… unmask me, I mean." _Dammit, I'm blushing aren't I? Good thing this hood is up…_

Matthew smiled. "You're so cheesy."

Sadiq huffed and ducked his head. "I know…" _Heracles said the same thing…_

"I just have to get over the fact that you're Turkey and then it would be sweet."

Sadiq glared through his hood at him. "You're a jerk."

"Not a trait that people expect from me, but yeah." Matthew's hands dipped to pull up Sadiq's pullover.

Sadiq stiffened. "What the hell are you doing?"

Mathew gave him an innocent look. "I figured that if I can't see your face, I could at least see the rest of you."

Sadiq hadn't been expecting that. "But… you'll see my face if you take this off."

Matthew huffed and rolled his eyes. "Fine. If it means that much to you…" He let go of Sadiq and pulled his own shirt over his head. He hooked his thumbs into his jeans and pushed down.

Sadiq blinked, forcing down his arousal, though it was certainly hard when seeing Matthew's flushed, unmarked body. It could do with some marks—bite marks, specifically. "Mattie… I thought we agreed—"

"Oh, don't get all fussy. I'm not going to have sex with you." Matthew's face was a perpetual red now, though his voice was completely calm. He knew how to appeal to others—Francis had taught him that. He tossed his shirt and pants in a pile beside them. "I want to feel you. Please?" Sadiq was about to say no, but then Matthew discarded his underwear and was sitting, naked and pleading, before him.

Sadiq swallowed. "All right. Turn around."

Matthew did so, and Sadiq got a good look at the Canadian's ass. Matthew's hair wasn't the only thing he got from Francis, that was for certain. When Sadiq was nude and settled in the sleeping bag, he covered his face with his hand and said, "Okay, get in and don't look."

Matthew turned around and laughed. "You are so _stupid_."

Sadiq would have countered that claim if it weren't for Matthew's hands trailing down his muscled torso.

"Wow," Matthew said. The man was gorgeous! _Holy fuck, he's a god._ "Now I _really_ can't wait to see your face." _And have you fuck me. Oh God..._

"Patience," Sadiq chided with a smile, grabbing Matthew's shirt and throwing it over his eyes. He welcomed Matthew into his arms, and when their skin touched he felt something spark.

Matthew laid his head on Sadiq's broad chest and ran his fingers down his skin. Sadiq shivered. "Should have tried this earlier," Matthew said with a content sigh.

Sadiq shrugged and wrapped an arm around Matthew's shoulder. "I wouldn't have minded." He was silent for a moment before adding, "You're beautiful." _Damn sappy tendencies…_

Matthew hummed happily. "I thought you didn't want any sex tonight?"

"I don't."

"Then stop making me want it," Matthew said cheekily, kissing him again. He slipped his tongue into Sadiq's mouth and moaned when the Turk reached up to cup the back of his head. Then Sadiq remembered and pushed Matthew away. Matthew looked down at him, distraught. It really was hard after seeing Sadiq's naked body—oh God, he shouldn't have suggested they strip. Another stupid thing Francis had ingrained in his head. But he managed to keep himself from straddling the older man and riding him like no tomorrow (because he really hadn't had any in a while) by looking at Sadiq's face—which was hidden by his shirt draped over his nose and up. It certainly was a weird sight.

"Let's sleep," Sadiq suggested, and Matthew settled down against him. The warmth a body provided when next to his own was something he had missed for so long. Too long.

Tears came to his eyes. _Oh, Carlos…_

How could he have forgotten about him so easily? Was he that much of a whore?

Sadiq's breathing deepened and Matthew could hear the steady beating of his heart from where his ear lay against his chest.

 _I love him so much already._ Sadiq seemed like he really cared. He wanted to go slow for him—just for him. And Matthew wanted to make this work, but he would have to let go of Cuba to do it. He didn't realize how hard it would be.

_Goodbye, Carlos._

And he cried.

* * *

Arthur studied his hand which was wrapped in gauze. Beside him, Francis finished wrapping the other.

"They look so painful," Francis observed, looking at him worriedly.

"I've experienced worse," Arthur replied, though he was half lying. Magical wounds were significantly worse than normal wounds and since he was mortal now it was even more painful. It hurt to move his fingers, his palms were so burned from expelling the fire. _I went too far,_ he thought with concern. _I never go too far._ It scared him how reckless he had been. And if he was the same the next time he used magic, there would be no one to bring him back from the void. "Don't worry about it."

"You don't have to hide your pain from me anymore, amour," Francis told him. "We are no longer rivals. We are lovers, and lovers tell each other what they are feeling."

Arthur scoffed. "I was never one for feelings anyway."

"Have you ever thought that that was the reason why you never had any friends?"

Arthur looked at him with a frown. "Lovers also aren't that blunt with each other."

Francis sighed in exasperation. "Then how else am I supposed to get to you?"

"Figure it out," Arthur growled through his teeth and turned his back to him, frustrated at himself, his horrible luck the past few days.

Francis huffed, hurt. "Why won't you talk to me, Arthur?"

"Because I don't want to."

"Then at least tell me why you feel this way."

Arthur sighed, looking at is hands again. "I feel so… useless. I couldn't lead—couldn't even defend myself from that bloody demon. Now look at me. I can't even move my hands. Might as well use me as dead weight, that's all I'm useful for."

"You're not useless—"

"We finally have something in common, frog," Arthur said. "We're both broken. In one way or another."

Francis stared at his lover's back for a moment before crawling over and putting a hand on Arthur's shoulder. "Please look at me, cher."

Arthur didn't move for a second, and then he turned around, looking up at him with blank green eyes. It scared Francis who had only ever seen that domineering fire behind them.

"We are only ever broken when we do not try," he told Arthur, running a hand through the Briton's messy locks. "Have you already given up?" When Arthur didn't answer, Francis raised his voice, almost frantic. He couldn't lose Arthur. They were too close to break now. "You can't give up. It's not fair. I could have just given up when those men had me, but I ran. I looked for you. You found me. It's not fair to the group. I saw how Alfred reacted when he thought you died. He loves you more than you know, Arthur, and you can't let that happen to him again. It's so cruel!" Francis shook his head and lowered his gaze. "You would just leave me so easily…"

Arthur sat there quiet for a moment, then he took Francis's face in his hands and kissed him. Francis gave a surprised grunt.

When they parted, Arthur said, "When have you known me to give up at anything?"

Francis smiled. "Are you finally talking to me?"

"Maybe," Arthur said with a smirk. He pushed Francis down onto their sleeping bag and straddled him. "You're sexy when you're angry."

 _Did that really just come out of my mouth?_ Arthur fought down a blush as he undid Francis's pants. But he didn't care. He really wanted sex. Sex cured everything. Well, more like made him forget for a little while, but still.

Francis looked up at him and sighed. "What are you doing, cher?"

"What does it bloody look like? Picking daisies, if that pleases you."

Francis rolled his eyes and flipped them over. It happened so fast and unexpectedly that Arthur gave an embarrassing yelp. Then he was beneath Francis, a position that would have scared him shitless before, but what he now found strangely arousing.

Francis gazed down at him, his eyes hooded. "Allow me, amour~" he purred before undoing and pushing Arthur's pants down. His mouth found Arthur's half-hard cock and engulfed it. Francis wanted to talk about so much more—Arthur's near-death experience, the demon, the repercussions of magic, how Arthur had to be careful from now on. But he figured that was the last thing the Briton wanted to hear right now. And so he aimed to distract them both as best he could while also showing Arthur how much he meant to him.

 _I love you._ Francis thought. _I don't want to lose you. Not again. Not ever._

Arthur gasped and buried his fingers in Francis's hair. "Oh, Francis~"

Both their minds ran away with the pleasure.

* * *

As soon as they were finished with their meager meal, Alfred and Ivan were in their tent, Alfred sitting on Ivan's lap, kissing like their lives depended on it. They only parted for breath for as long as it took to fill their lungs with air, and then they were liplocked again.

Alfred pulled back again, panting, Ivan's lips trailing down to his neck and ravaging it thoroughly. "God, I shouldn't want this. Not now."

Ivan didn't say anything, only captured his lips again and slipped a tongue in. Alfred moaned and met Ivan with enthusiasm… only then to separate. "Artie almost… h-he coulda—"

"Don't think about that," Ivan told him, their eyes locking.

 _He's so beautiful._ Alfred mused, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. _Damn, I'm falling apart._ He knew he ought to be worried about Arthur's welfare and anything _but_ sex… but ever since that kiss they had shared after all the chaos had unfolded, the way Ivan had touched him, and now that he seemed so eager to love him, why not allow it?

And so Alfred let himself go, submitting to Ivan's every touch and kiss which sent shocks of electricity through his body. He wrapped his arms around Ivan's neck and that was enough permission for the Russian to flip them over so that Alfred lay beneath him. Alfred was clinging to Ivan, as if he needed him to breathe. When they separated again, only long enough for Ivan to toss off his coat and pull Alfred's shirt over his head, Alfred was gazing up at him in obvious adoration. And Ivan knew then, he _knew_ that all of the other hate-filled fucks they'd had in the past did not matter anymore. This time, they would do it right and not let pride get anywhere between them.

Ivan's lips returned to Alfred's neck, and Alfred moaned. He had been growing hotter and hotter ever since their late dinner and he could barely manage to keep himself from smashing his lips to Ivan's when the man had leaned over to ask how he was doing. As soon as they had retired for the night, Alfred had already been sporting a hard-on for a good half hour and they only just made it into their tent in time to avoid grinding before an audience. He was sure there had to be _something_ going on. It was like he couldn't get enough of Ivan, as if he had just showed up after decades of separation and Alfred was absolutely _dying_ for him.

"Y-you did something," he accused, hand pushing the back of Ivan's head further into his neck, moaning when he felt teeth brush over his skin.

Ivan giggled. "Da, I did."

"What did you, unh, do?"

The Russian pulled back to look down at him with a smile. "I had picked up your pack to move it when something fell out." Alfred stiffened below him and Ivan's smile widened. "I must say I was surprised that you would carry an aphrodisiac with you."

Alfred's face reddened. "I-it was from Francis—a prize for winning a bet, and y-you put it in my food?"

"Da," Ivan said, brushing a thumb over Alfred's nipple. "You need to relax, da? Now I can finally show you how much I—mmf."

Alfred seized his lips and pulled back, his eyes hooded, his voice breathless. "Stop talking," He wanted Ivan so badly right now. He didn't think he'd be able to be quiet enough for them not to be heard, not with Ivan's fingertips running over his skin and even that making him moan low in his throat.

Ivan smiled warmly and brushed the hair back from Alfred's eyes. He slowly slipped off the other man's glasses.

Alfred squirmed impatiently beneath him, looking for any friction he could get. "Ivan," he whined.

"Vanya," Ivan insisted as he slipped off Alfred's pants. "Call me Vanya."

Alfred sighed when his underwear was pulled down and off, exposing his throbbing hardness to the open air. "I've heard your sisters call you that," Alfred said as he watched Ivan dispose of the rest of his clothes and then they were both naked—except for Ivan's wrapped side. Matthew had tended to him after the shoot out with Organization members. "Always wanted to call you that. Couldn't though." Alfred couldn't keep his eyes from wandering to Ivan's wound, the bullet still imbedded inside. He felt so selfish for wanting this when it would hurt Ivan.

Ivan caught him looking and quickly said, "That's because pride controls everything you do and think."

Alfred shook his head, looking a little hurt. "No… no, I was afraid you would reject me."

Ivan blinked in surprise, feeling a little guilty. "I would not have," he assured, kissing Alfred's forehead. "Я люблю тебя."

Alfred knew those words. He hated the commie language, but he had urged himself to learn just these three words—in hopes that he would understand Ivan when he said them, because he _hoped_ Ivan would someday say them to him: _I love you._

Alfred's breath caught. "Vanya," Dammit, he _was not_ gonna cry like some girl…

Okay, he was.

Sure, he had heard Ivan say it before, but it felt like it had been months since he'd said it, since they said it to each other. And so much had happened between then and now that it made Alfred cherish hearing those words even more.

"Alfred," Ivan said and captured his lover's lips.

Alfred didn't want to come across as desperate, but he couldn't stop himself from whimpering and pulling Ivan down to him so that their skin touched. He was shaking with arousal and he reached down, taking hold of Ivan's semi-hard cock and stroking it to full mast.

Ivan moaned and Alfred placed the head against his hole. "Please,"

Ivan looked worriedly down at him before lifting his fingers to brush across Alfred's lips. "Wet them," He knew how big he was and so did Alfred. They both knew it would hurt, and if Alfred was choosing to ignore that fact then Ivan would have to be the one to enforce precaution.

Alfred whined but took them into his mouth, knowing he would only waste more time complaining than doing. He made sure to lave the fingers thoroughly before Ivan took them back and nudged them against his entrance. They locked eyes as Ivan pushed one in.

Alfred groaned and dug his fingers into Ivan's shoulders. "Oh~"

"Alfred," Ivan said again.

He worked in another finger and scissored him.

"Nng, uh…"

"Alfred,"

That name.

Three fingers were in him now, working him open at an agonizingly slow pace.

"Please, Vanya…"

"Alfred,"

What if his magic hadn't worked? What if he had been too slow? Would Alfred have died today? Would it have been his fault?

"Y-yes, Vanya, oh,"

He would have not been able to say Alfred's name like this again. He'd come so close to losing him; the idiot, he just walked right into trouble without thinking how devastated Ivan would be if he were to die.

"Vanya, now. I'm ready."

Then he would show Alfred.

Show him what he would be missing out on if he didn't think before he acted.

Ivan's fingers disappeared and were replaced with the head of his cock. Alfred spread his legs wide for him and wrapped his arms around his neck, pulling him close.

"Do it, Vanya," he begged and Ivan obliged him. "Y-yes, Vanyaaah~" Oh, he hadn't felt this in a while. It hurt from lack of lubricant and months of being deprived, but just being filled was enough to override the pain.

Ivan watched as Alfred's back arched and the younger moaned his name. Soon he was settled all the way inside and Alfred was wriggling below him.

"Ahn, move, please,"

And he did.

Alfred clung to him and his legs wrapped around his waist. He truly had forgotten how big Ivan was… and how experienced Ivan was at finding his sweet spot. It was a wonder he had remembered after so long. He hit it after only a few thrusts and without any guidance, and Alfred gasped, "Yeah, there! More, m-more…"

"Alfred," Ivan attacked his neck, kissing, sucking, nipping.

The thrusts picked up and soon they were both moaning loudly, skin slapping. They were sure others could hear them, but they didn't care. Ivan had been waiting for this forever, and he wasn't going to stop even if his side was killing him. And Alfred was a shivering puddle of goo, incapable of anything but moaning and rolling his hips to Ivan's deep and calculated thrusts.

"V-Vanya, unh," Alfred was so close and delirious with arousal. Despite the chilling temperature outside their sleeping bag he was burning up from the inside out. His balls drew up, and he was crying out, nails leaving red trails on Ivan's pale skin. "Y-yes, Vanya, oh fuck!"

And he was coming between their bodies, hot and heavenly and oh-so needed. Ivan wasn't far behind, the tightness of Alfred something he hadn't felt in so long. He moaned Alfred's name into his neck as he filled him, adding to the warmth between them.

They took the time to catch their breaths and Ivan kissed Alfred again, pouring everything he'd said and all that he had yet to say into that kiss. It was enough for Alfred to want do it all over again. And again. And again. Damn, he was just horny.

Alfred rolled his hips, but Ivan pulled away and rolled over to lie beside him. "Nyet, I am tired and so are you. Maybe another time."

"Says you who's been wanting it this whole time," Alfred replied and clambered on top of him. He kissed a line down his jaw and ground down against him.

Ivan chuckled, trying to hold it in but it soon came out in a full-on giggle. Alfred looked down at him in confusion.

"Is there something I don't know about?"

"D-da," Ivan said, calming himself. "I lied."

Alfred felt his heart drop. "Lied about what?" _Oh no, not now, you asshole. You were acting too sincere this time for me to just let it go…_ He could feel his throat getting scratchy already and, dammit, he didn't want to cry again. _Please don't take it back. I've waited so long for you to say it…_

"The aphrodisiac," Ivan said and Alfred's eyes widened. The Russian reached over to rummage through Alfred's bag and held the sack up to him. Alfred took it into his hand. It was just as full as when he had first gotten it from Francis.

"What… how…?"

"It was all you," Ivan smiled. "There are no tricks now, da? Just the real thing."

Alfred blushed and kissed him again—passionately. When they parted, Alfred's lips brushed Ivan's ear.

"I love you," he whispered. "I love you so much."

Ivan sighed and held him.

"I know, моя любовь."

Outside their tent, warm with passion, the first snowflake of the night alighted on the earth.

* * *

Translations:

dummkopf-fool

meine liebe-my love

моя любовь-my love

A Word From the Writer: Ack! All the lemon-y fragments before the actual lemon! Sorry, but I wanted to really focus on RusAme because America's mind has been a gigantic, cockblocking pain-in-the-ass, so it was about damn time they actually bonked. Look at Russia being all romantic. Y'all know Turkey's hawt, too. And, yay, everyone has officially paired up! Now the drama and the paranoia will get all the worse for you. I'm still gonna kill some of these characters off, so expect distraught lovers and such later on...

And, fuck, this weekend has been crap for me. My allergies are all like "Imma be a bitch now" and I feel like shit. Then on top of that, I has sick. I dunno what it is, but I've gone through a whole forest full of trees in the form of tissues and I just wanna lay down and stare at the ceiling cause that's all I feel like doing. But I had to go to the campus (a two hour car trip, thank God I chose not to go out of state) then it was raining and my dad has poison oak and bronchitis (yeah, at the same time) and my mom has my same sick (she gave it to me) and my little sister is all like "Haha, you're sick!" and I'm like "Fuck you," *coughs on her pillow when she's not looking* The only good part about it is, when I get sick I get angry at myself for getting sick. Like "Body, how could you? What did I ever do to you? You're supposed to stay healthy, you traitor!" and so everyone's avoiding me, which is good because that's how I like it anyway. I can upload in peace!

And I find it very convenient that I'm posting on the day of the return of _The Walking Dead_. Imma Skype with my zombie-crazy friend during the episode. And, as always, if Daryl dies, we riot.

As Mr. Dixon so eloquently puts it, "Shoot me again? You best pray I'm dead!"

Ah, I spoiled the fluffs. XD


	65. Parting the Curtains

**I have stolen Tardis. And punched the button to _Era of Shitty Times for Everyone._  
**

Warning: Angst, flashback, paranoia, FrUK, mention of RusAme, and... depressing stuff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

  
**Parting the Curtains**   


Francis rolled over in his sleeping bag and reached out a hand, groping around. He wanted nothing more than to pull Arthur to him, to wrap his arms around him and hold him close for as long as he could keep him. But he couldn't find him, so he cracked open his eyes and saw that the Briton was absent from the entire tent.

"Arthur…?" he muttered and sat up, shivering as the cold air hit his bare skin and he pulled the sleeping bag up around him. He still couldn't believe that last night he had denied someone sex. Sex with _him_. He couldn't recall a time it had ever happened, but it had and it was just further proof that he loved Arthur dearly and would forgo his basic needs for him.

Because, really, sex was basic to him.

He threw on some clothes and reached up to feel the scar around his neck. His fingers were ice cold, and he hissed when he touched the thin film of skin stretching over the wound. He had found in the past couple of days that he had to refrain from moving his neck too much or else he would rip open the scab and it would bleed. And if anything, he didn't want to be fussed over. They couldn't afford to direct their attentions to anything but staying alive.

He crawled out of the tent flap and didn't look around for long before he saw Arthur sitting around the remnants of their fire, his legs drawn up with his arms wrapped snugly around him and his chin resting on his knees.

Francis quickly walked over to him and sat beside him. "What are you doing, cher? It's too cold to be sitting out here in just what you're wearing. You'll be sick. Come back in—"

"My hands are burning," Arthur admitted in a mutter so that Francis barely heard him.

Francis blinked. "Q-quoi?"

"I said my hands are burning," Arthur ground out and dug his fingers into his legs in frustration. "It's the fucking magic. I wasn't careful, and I used it to the point that it went beyond what I could control. So, it's burned me. And it's still burning." It had happened sometime during the night, and Arthur couldn't stand it, couldn't sleep. So he went outside and buried the burning appendages in the snow. Still, that barely helped. The fire felt like it was coming from within his flesh.

Francis took one of Arthur's bandaged hands into his own. When he felt the heat, his heart dropped. "I can feel it."

"It feels like my hands are on fire," Arthur huffed. "And they bloody itch as well."

Francis really didn't know what to say. He had never seen this before, so what was he supposed to say? Get some rest and maybe it will get better? Hell, he had barely done magic, who was he to say that Arthur's condition would improve? So he was silent.

Arthur clenched his hands until his knuckles were white, not caring if it made the burning hurt even worse. "Goddammit, I was so stupid. How did I ever think I could do that? Here I am telling Alfred not to rush into things and I'm sitting here with two useless hands. You might as well call them stumps, because that's all they're good for now."

Francis stiffened. "Now? Does that mean… for good?"

Arthur sighed, his eyes downcast, watching the ashes being carried off by the dry prairie winds. "No… magic is only energy. I conjured up too much of it and now it's trapped in my hands. I couldn't expend it all before I passed out. It was a lot of magic, too. By my estimate it may be weeks, but I'm not waiting that long. I refuse to be a bystander to everything because of this. My mistake shouldn't affect the well-being of this group."

_I've given up so much for them. How long will it be before I have nothing left to give?_

Francis had been so concerned about Arthur that he hadn't seen it had snowed during the night. At least five inches were piled up on the dry grass and scrub.

"Arthur, you need to dress warmer," Francis said, not knowing exactly how to respond to Arthur's rant.

That must have not been the right thing to say at the moment, because Arthur whipped his head around and snapped, "There you go, fawning over me. I won't have it! I'm not a child to be looked after!"

Before Francis could tell him otherwise, Arthur got up and marched back toward the tent, disappearing inside. _Well,_ Francis reasoned. _At least he won't catch a chill now._

He was going to go back inside himself to talk to Arthur. He was worried about the man. For as long as Francis knew him, Arthur absolutely loathed being helpless. He had taken great strides throughout his history to be prepared for anything. But now… who could have expected _this_?

He was halfway there when he heard a rustling and turned around to see a tousle-haired Matthew emerge from the tent he shared with Sadiq. There was something about the Canadian—his complexion, the little skip in his step, the way he looked around like they were in no danger at all—that made Francis smile.

"Bon matin, Mathieu. You are looking particularly happy this morning."

Matthew smiled back. "Just mulling over the fact that we're not all dead," he lied, and it was obvious. Well, at least to Francis it was. His smile turned into a leer and Matthew blushed. Yep, expect Francis to know what had taken place between him and Sadiq last night when the man was nowhere near his tent.

At least he hoped he hadn't been.

Luckily he didn't have to discuss it with Francis, because the man nodded to him and went back into his tent. Matthew frowned at this. Sure, it was convenient for Francis to disappear at the moment, but when something involving sex and Matthew came up, they almost always talked about it. Almost. Sometimes they got to it themselves.

Matthew was alarmed when he saw the snow on the ground. Winter was coming fast, and they needed to get off the plains. There was no sign of any animals whatsoever, and Matthew doubted they stuck around once the snow started to fall.

 _Look at us._ Matthew thought. _The most superior species on earth and we haven't a clue how to survive nature. How ironic._

Alfred, meanwhile, was not in the least bit cold. He was snuggled up against Ivan in the sleeping bag they shared, too content to move even though he knew they had set a standard for waking at dawn. He rolled over and looked up at Ivan, who seemed to still be sleeping, his eyes closed.

Alfred brushed his lips across his neck. "Mornin',"

Ivan opened one eye immediately. He had just been dozing. He had trained himself to hear and feel everything near him when he was asleep. He smiled at him, remembering all that had happened the previous night. "доброе утро, Alfred." Then he inhaled deeply and blinked. "It has snowed."

"What?" Alfred said incredulously. "How the fuck do you know that?"

"I am Russian," Ivan answered, though really he could smell snow. It was that damp, icy smell that was carried on the wind. It reminded him of home… and of all the horrible things that would have happened there since. Did Russia still exist? No. He knew it didn't. He was a mortal now. No one considered him a country except for the other nations and himself, but ultimately it was the citizens who decided if he was worthy of the title. It was like that with everyone, and they were just lying to themselves for the sake of forgetting their troubles.

Alfred kissed him on the lips this time and sat up, only to quickly slide back into the sleeping bag when the frigid air hit his skin. Ivan chuckled and got up, reaching over and tossing Alfred's clothes to him. The American caught them and hastily set to putting them on.

"Jesus Christ," Alfred muttered. "I hate saying it, but those commie hats and coats are looking pretty damn warm right now."

Ivan huffed. "Stop whining. The snow has barely started falling. We are lucky that we do not have General Winter hunting us."

"Oh yeah?" Alfred said. "Does your General Winter have a daughter? Because she's a _bitch_."

Ivan laughed. "Perhaps."

Alfred was shivering by the time they got outside, but he tried to ignore it. Usually he stayed in during the cold-ass winter months. He remembered the coldest winter he had endured on record: the year 1936. He had journeyed out to the Midwest to visit the farming states who had been severely affected by the Depression and the Dust Bowl. As if it wasn't bad enough that crop yields were low, a vicious cold wave had blanketed the entire country and Alfred was forced to wait it out in Minnesota with his daughter. Electricity hadn't yet been established in the rural, agricultural areas of the country and (lucky him) Minnesota just so happened not to be one of those states. They had spent their days sitting mere inches from the fire, and whenever Alfred or Minnie went out to collect more firewood, they would be as stiff as a board by the time they came back inside and it took them hours to fully thaw out. February—trapped inside by snow drifts as tall as a man with a -100 degree Fahrenheit wind chill seeping through their heavily-burdened windows. So it was only understandable that whenever proper heating systems had been installed across the country, Alfred took avid advantage. Though he had a sneaking suspicion that this year wouldn't be far off from that dreadful February in 1936.

The thought unnerved him and he shivered more, pulling his coat further around himself. He watched Ivan with envy as the man walked around without the slightest twitch, even smiling as if in welcome at the snow.

 _Weird-ass commie and his backwards ways_. Alfred supposed that the vast differences between them were what made the Russian attractive to him, and he was grateful for that.

He was surprised when he saw Ludwig standing in the center of the camp instead of Arthur. He was so used to seeing the Briton chattering away about the plans for the day that the sight was almost startling. Alfred looked around, barely hearing what Ludwig was saying, and saw that Arthur was not among the group. Francis was, however, and looking none too happy.

Without any regard to Ludwig, Alfred turned on his heel and headed for Arthur's tent. Ivan caught him by the shoulder.

"Where are you going? It is rude to leave when being given instructions."

"Artie," Alfred replied simply and shrugged his hand off.

Ivan watched him leave and rolled his eyes. "непочтительный американский,"

Alfred ignored what he thought to be an insult and ducked inside the tent. There he found Arthur, sitting cross-legged, back to the entrance, staring at the sloping wall of blue nylon.

"Artie?" Alfred said, a bit concerned. Normally Arthur would have turned at the sound of the tent flap opening and closing—he was that alert nowadays. But now there was something… off.

"Artie?" He sat down beside Arthur. "Igs? You okay?"

Arthur didn't turn to look at him, didn't even blink. "Look at what this madness has done to us, Alfred. So distracted by the big picture that it's the small things that will kill us."

And just like that, Alfred was taken back in time.

* * *

_Alfred held a handkerchief over his mouth and coughed a couple of times, disgusted when he heard the liquid in his lungs rattle up his throat. He swallowed and struggled not to throw up as he knocked on the door. Arthur's voice drifted through the oak._

_"C-come in,"_

_Arthur was hacking and cleared his throat several times before he was able to greet Alfred when he walked in and shut the door behind him. When Arthur saw him, he scowled._

_"What are you doing here? I told you to stay away."_

_"I'm sick," Alfred said, sniffing. "And you are, too."_

_Arthur turned back to the window he was looking out of, watching the planes take off from the nearby base. "You should still be at home. From what I hear you have a considerable amount of people sick as well."_

_"I wanted to see you," Alfred admitted, setting down his things… wherever. He knew Arthur hated it, but he was too tired and achy to bother with putting them away properly. He walked over to Arthur and examined him. "You look awful pale. You should be in bed."_

_Arthur's eyes remained fixed on the horizon, a plane zooming overhead, making the whole building rumble with its ascent. "I can't stay in bed, America. There's a war going on, if you haven't noticed. And I'm in the thick of it."_

_Alfred huffed. He knew he should have stayed out of it like everyone told him, but he couldn't just sit around and watch Arthur dive in—that and he wanted to show Alejandro down south that no matter if he joined Ludwig, he wouldn't get his lands back. The message had infuriated Alfred (1). Texas and everything else weren't stolen, they were won and won good and fair. He had even paid Alejandro for them. So much for playing the nice card. Well, then again, maybe it hadn't been wise to intervene in that fight for authority the Mexican had been having…_

_Alfred would have insisted that Arthur rest—he did look exhausted and gaunt—but he knew it was no use, and he didn't want to further tire the Briton out by engaging in an argument he knew he would lose. He sighed. "I saw Mattie before I left."_

_Arthur looked at him. "Is he ill?"_

_Alfred nodded. "Not as much as us, but he still needs to take it easy. He wanted to visit France, but I told him not to come over here."_

_"That's just as well," Arthur said, redirecting his gaze back to the window. "He must be worried, the poor lad. The frog is way too close to Germany for comfort. Let's hope the bastard catches some of it himself…" He paused and said, with slight hesitation, "How is old froggy doing anyway? You docked in France, right?"_

_Before this whole war shit, Alfred would have made some dirty comment but he was too down to even try. "He's sick. Very. Worse than you."_

_"And you?"_

_Alfred swallowed. Arthur turned to look at him._

_"Don't you try to hide shit from me again, America, I know when you are."_

_"I-I don't know," Alfred admitted, feeling defeated. "I'm trying my best, but I don't know what it is. They say it's pneumonia, but the medicine for that isn't working and the symptoms aren't the same. It's bad enough that this war is going on, but now nature has to fuck us where it hurts."_

_Arthur narrowed his eyes. "I asked how you were doing, not if you had found out what this was or not."_

_Alfred blinked and licked his lips. "Fine. I'm doing… fine. But don't worry about me. Shit's going down over here and you need to focus on that. I'm here to help."_

_"Well, it's nice to see you come out of your ignorant little bubble for once," Arthur growled coldly and coughed some more. His eyes were bloodshot and his hair was mussed; he gave no indication of his knack for always looking professional and presentable. It worried Alfred a lot._

_"You know I can't stay out of a war when you ask me for help."_

_Arthur rounded on him. "I-I wasn't asking for help!" Then he went into a coughing fit. When he finished, he looked miserable and plagued with fatigue. "Look at what this madness has done to us, Alfred. So distracted by the big picture that it's the small things that will kill us."_

_Alfred's breath caught. "We're not gonna die, Artie. We can't—we're nations."_ I'm the hero…

_Arthur shook his head. "With the war claiming soldiers and the illness claiming those at home, who will we have left to call us nations?"_

_Alfred could see it now, the sadness in Arthur's eyes. They both knew the war was near its end, but Arthur could see no end until this mystery contagion was solved. And after going through so much—much more than Alfred could ever imagine—it was starting to wear on the Briton._

_Alfred pulled Arthur to him and hugged him. Arthur squirmed and snapped, "Let go, I'm sick!"_

_"Artie," Alfred said and held him regardless. "Artie, stop."_

_Arthur gave a growl of frustration and stopped thrashing. "America—"_

_Alfred didn't answer. Just held him. Made sure he was still and safe._

_Then Arthur slumped and said, "It's over. It's almost over. We're so close. And then it will be done. Everything, all this shit… and we can move on. I just want it to be over. I'm so tired…"_

_"It'll be over, Artie," Alfred assured him. "It has to end sometime. Everything has to end."_

* * *

It did end, but not the Spanish flu. That's what they called it before they figured out it was a mutated form of avian flu that had jumped from chickens to humans. And it didn't even come from Spain; it had come from American troops, most of which were made up of farmers from the Midwest. When Alfred agreed to help, he had brought the illness with him. He remembered feeling guilty about it, but he figured karma caught up with him when he himself became sick.

Maybe Arthur was not far off in his words. Everyone expected a war—no one expected disease. The First World War claimed over thirty-seven million lives… the flu took close to one-hundred million. There was no warning; the war had been a very dangerous distraction. Before anyone knew it, the illness was upon them, circulating through the civilians and the troops. The time was one of the few things burned into Alfred's forever memory and its lesson had left the greatest mark: the big picture, while glorious and grand, was but a decorative shade pulled over a great window—a blood-red window, cracked and chipped and gradually being worn away. And they would all sit and look at that splendid, curtained window and not notice until too late, not until the winds changed directions and stirred the hangings, that it was not so pretty and flawless after all. They had to be careful this time, no one could make mistakes. They couldn't afford to be caught in an illusion. They couldn't afford to believe that their plan was perfect.

He thought about what he had said back then. _Everything has to end._ Well, wasn't he right? Everything _had_ ended. Maybe not the world, but the world according to society. It had started so long ago; Alfred couldn't even remember how now. Would the Uprising end? Or would it stop for a decade or so and resume like the World Wars?

Or was it something else entirely?

Regardless, Alfred couldn't allow Arthur to cut himself off from everyone. They needed Arthur—and if they didn't admit that, then Alfred would. He had almost lost Arthur once, and he sure as hell wasn't going to lose him when he was right there beside him, breathing, speaking, _alive_. It would be more upsetting to see Arthur give up rather than see him die. If he died, at least he would die fighting. But now…

Alfred wanted to hold him like that one time long ago, but something about Arthur made him hold back. This wasn't the same exhausted, but determined British Empire. This was a man grappling with the fact that his greatest strength had almost killed him and those he had charged himself with looking after.

So he did the next best thing that came to his mind.

He said, "We're not gonna die, Artie. We can't—we're nations."

Arthur snorted, recalling faintly their past conversation. "No, we're not. Not anymore."

"Who says?" Alfred asked. "People? People are subject to deception and misguidance all the time. Sure, we may be mortals now, but that doesn't mean our job as nations is over. We were born to lead. As long as we have that strength, nothing can stop us."

Arthur scoffed. There went Alfred again, being the voice of 'reason' and rash determination, spewing his idiotic mantra of herosim. He hated that Alfred, of all people, could do this to him—convince him that he was strong. The one who had seen him weak… it seemed strangely ironic.

So Arthur took a deep breath and exhaled. "It will end. But I can no longer trust myself to lead—for now. Until I have enough mind to control my powers I will step down. I feel it is too dangerous to my well-being as well as others if I take up a position of authority without proper management of my own functions."

Alfred blinked in surprise. He couldn't imagine how the group would even function without Arthur at the wheel. It certainly was weird… normally Alfred thought himself was the leader in every situation. But he knew… somehow, Alfred knew that he wasn't ready. Not yet. The murder of that man over Marge was still swimming freshly in his mind. What he'd done had been savage, barbaric… he could not afford to revert to that state again, but who knew if or when it would happen again?

Alfred swallowed. "Who, then?"

Arthur looked at him, and now Alfred could see truly how tired he was. Dark smudges were under his eyes and he looked gaunt, sickly—not very different from when he was sick during the war. "Not…?" He was surprised that Alfred hadn't suggested himself, which would of course certainly not prove ideal.

Alfred knew what the question meant. "Nah. I'm buying time until we reach the capital."

Arthur stared and knew Alfred was lying. The git was always bad at hiding it. He had this habit of looking down and to the left, wringing his hands and breathing heavily through his nose. It really was obvious. Surprise overwhelmed suspicion, though. Alfred loved to lead. Had the Uprising changed him? Arthur didn't know if he was proud or worried for his ex-colony, but he had a feeling he would find out before long.

Arthur's mind then went to choosing who would take his place. Everyone had their faults and assets, but then again why was it up to Arthur to decide? Sure, no one had voted for him to take the lead, but the instinct was so deeply rooted inside him that he hadn't even known it was in himself. Was it fair, then, to decide the fate of the group?

Arthur could hear Ludwig's voice floating to the tent, and then he knew. Ludwig. Immediately after it had been clear that Arthur was unfit for authority, he had taken it upon himself to make sure the group was advised and directed. No one had wondered, no one had asked, no one had voted… he was just _there_. And no one was protesting, the sound of feet scattering about them as the group dispersed to pack up the tents under Ludwig's direction a sign of acceptance.

It would be a gamble, it might not work, and Arthur would be lying if he said he wasn't worried about Ludwig's history of unstable leadership, but it was worth a shot.

Alfred looked at him and he heard it also. "Ludwig?"

Arthur nodded. "You think it's right?" _Why the hell am I even asking the twit?_

Alfred looked at him with that lopsided smile. "Artie, you almost died saving us. I'm sure your pick would be the best one."

And Arthur could finally breathe.

Alfred seemed to relax as well. He nodded to Arthur's hands. "When're those gonna heal?"

"Not for some time, I'm afraid," Arthur replied, and Alfred wanted to kick himself in the ass for bringing it up again. "Magic leaves an imprint on everything it touches or manipulates. It may not be clear to the average eye, but to magic users they glow as bright as a lantern. Most of the time, if it's used properly, magic is harmless. But if it extends beyond the energy someone can afford to supply…" He sighed. "the imprint becomes considerably more noticeable."

"They'll go away though, right?" Alfred asked hopefully. "Eventually?"

"I honestly don't know, Alfred. But if they stay, that doesn't mean I won't do my part."

Alfred was about to say that he should get some rest (he _had_ had a very stressful night, after all), but thought better and shut his mouth. Nobody told the former British Empire to take it easy without getting a good clout to the head and a lecture on the consequences of languidness.

Arthur looked over and caught Alfred smiling at him. "What?"

"Nothin', workaholic," Alfred jeered in a friendly way before standing. "C'mon. We better get out there and help before Ludwig starts barking at us."

"I suppose," Arthur agreed and stood. True, he couldn't help with his hands, but he could try his best to find other ways to contribute.

Alfred left the tent before him, which meant Arthur could see the more-than-obvious limp he was sporting. Arthur snorted.

"I would watch your walk," Arthur muttered, coming up beside him. "But I wouldn't say that I was the only one that heard you last night."

Alfred froze, mid-step, blushing. "Y-you heard, huh?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You've always been quite the loudmouth. And I just want you to know that I'm…" Arthur cleared his throat loudly. "happyforyouAHEM."

It took a moment for Alfred to translate, and he got that goofy smile on his face again. He was opening his mouth to respond, when Arthur snapped, "Just pay mind to keep your voice in check next time round. Some people need their sleep." And the Briton marched off without another word, not looking back. He arrived at the tent he shared with Francis, and the Frenchman threw him a glance over his shoulder, waggling his eyebrows. Arthur squashed the man's foot with his heel until Francis yipped and moved away from him, still leering, knowing full well what Arthur and Alfred had been talking about because he hadn't been able to sleep until the noises were over either.

"Get back to work, frog. The sun's rising, and we need to be off."

Francis smiled. "Aye, mon capitaine charmant."

Arthur frowned at him until he turned around and proceeded to roll up the tent, then smiled to himself.

Perhaps, in time, Alfred would be happy for him as well.

* * *

Translations:  


доброе утро-Good morning

непочтительный американский-Irreverent American

capitaine charmant-charming captain

References:

(1) Referring to the Zimmerman Telegram.

A Word From the Writer: So, yeah, just some historical geekiness going on here. I just had to include the thing about the Spanish flu, c'mon, folks. It was drama, and I was like, "Imma use this to make more drama and symbolism, yeah!" And, yes, that's really how my brain works. The part about the drama and gore not about the porn. The porn part is usually stronger. So everyone was sick as hell, people died, everyone had an overall shitty time, end of flashback. Though I do want to note that it has only been suspected (not confirmed) that the avian flu that led to the 1918 outbreak originated in the Midwestern U.S. So, America's all like, "I'll help!" and then everyone gets sick, then he blames it on Spain (or anyone else but him, really). Sounds legit. At least I'm not sick anymore, but my sister is, hehe. Karma's a _bitch_. And Russia and America were loud. I always imagine all of their romps look more like something you'd see on National Geographic rather than some random porn site that takes you a _gagillion_ places before finally reaching the video you wanted and then asking you to pay up. Like, wtf, man. Have you no sympathy for poor-ass horny bastards?

Hehe, Imma get a virus, I just know it. But it'll be _worth it_. Kinda. :/

It's all Japan's fault! You and your porn. o_e

 _Ahem_ , onward!


	66. Still Stuck

**Just a big fucking ball of emotion right herr.  
**

Warning: Angst, insults, internal conflict, Spamano (one-sided kinda), Prumano, RusAme, FrUK, TurCan, and GerIta.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Still Stuck**

They left the malevolent pile of tarlike goo where Arthur had thrown it up. And they made sure to make a wide circle around it whenever they walked by.

They were more than ready to leave. They could still see the smoke swirling up in the distance from the field and the whole place felt darker. Arthur looked at the tar—the residue the demon Agramon had left inside him—and felt apprehension grip him again. In all his life, he could never remember being so weak. He couldn't do anything, was a prisoner in his own mind, which scared the hell out of him. He thought magic could protect him before. But now… he also knew it could be a false ally. Francis sensed that something was troubling him, and came up beside him, taking his hand. But Arthur slapped his away.

"Wanker," he mumbled, but smiled.

But Alfred was no longer afraid to hold his lover's hand. In fact, it wasn't that he was afraid what others would think of them, but worry over Ivan's pain. Alfred knew Ivan, no matter how much Ivan told him otherwise during their spat, and he knew the Russian always hid his hurts. It wasn't his fault. It was instinctual, coming from many years of pain and neglect. He didn't understand why Ivan couldn't open up to him, though Alfred suspected it was because the man didn't want to be a bother or deemed weak.

Once again, Alfred asked, "Are you sure you're okay?"

Ivan was beginning to get annoyed. Alfred's concern had been cute… at first. But now that he kept mentioning it, he feared the others would hear that he was struggling to cope with his injury. "Da, I'm fine. It is just one bullet wound."

Alfred licked his lips and squeezed Ivan's hand. "You could have died."

"But I did not."

"We could never have made love," Alfred continued in a low voice.

Ivan sighed. "But we _did_ , Alfred. Now stop mentioning it."

Alfred let go of his hand and glared at him. "Why do you have the right to be worried about every little damn thing I do and I can't be the same way with you?"

Ivan huffed. Others were starting to watch… "Alfred—"

"I love you just as much," Alfred told him. The American felt like punching him. Ivan had to let someone take care of _him_ for once. Why wouldn't Ivan let Alfred love him like he wanted to?

Ivan looked at him. "I kno—"

"No, you don't," Alfred said firmly. "I'm going to fucking take care of you until you want to break my nose." He took Ivan's hand again. "And you're going to shut up about it."

Ivan blinked in disbelief and scoffed, but remained silent. He supposed he could let Alfred take care of him… for now. As long as it meant he got sex, then he would tolerate it.

Matthew was at the back of group and watched Ivan and Alfred with envy. Why was it always him wanting what Alfred had (except all the enemies and stupidity and pollution and fast food and… well a lot of things, but at least Alfred was seen)? Why not the other way around? It wasn't fair.

Before he could brood on it, he felt lips brush his cheek and turned to see a hooded Sadiq smiling at him. "Would it be too much to ask if I could hold your hand?"

Matthew blushed and smiled back. "No, it would be just right." And he took Sadiq's hand in his. No one looked. No one saw. Matthew was in his own private little world at the back of the group, and for once, he had someone with him.

Over dry hill and rock they went, trudging through the snow, the overcast sky offering them no refuge from the chilled air. And yet they did not travel silently; they were talking amongst themselves in small groups or in pairs, though they did not feel fit enough to share everything with the whole group.

No pair could have defined the secrecy better than Lovino and Gilbert. They walked apart, Lovino beside Feliciano and Gilbert beside Ludwig. Every once in a while, their wandering eyes would meet and Gilbert would smile at him in that annoying-ass way, and Lovino would scoff to himself but feel a surge of warmth in him he hadn't felt since, well…

 _Toni_. Lovino's mind went to him whenever he had nothing to do or say. The man wasn't a plague anymore, but a memory—a bright, beautiful memory that Lovino wanted nothing more but to embrace. Every chance he could get he found himself telling Toni 'I love you', hoping that he would somehow hear and respond. But the man had made one visit. How many did you get when you were in heaven? One certainly wasn't enough. One was a tease, a visit that was blissful but instilled a deep longing in his heart.

Toni had been right _there_. So close that Lovino had felt like he could reach out and touch him. And he had even smelled like tomatoes and that cologne Lovino had told him time and again he absolutely loathed… but that had in fact attracted him immensely. Why hadn't they had enough time? It seemed as if there wasn't enough time now at all. And it had only been a month—a month out of _decades_ —that Lovino had finally told Toni that he loved him… a month out of years of being together. That had taken a lot of effort, but when he finally said it he felt it. Right then he realized that he was completely in love with Toni and never wanted to leave him. No one had understood him until Toni, not even his own brother, and Lovino still loved him so, so much. He had accepted the fact that Toni was gone, that he was content watching over him, but that didn't keep him from still being in love with the bastard.

 _You're wrong, Gilbert,_ Lovino thought. _I can't love two people at once. It's not fair._ Gilbert, even though he was a stupid bastard, deserved better than that. It was like Lovino was cheating on him every time he thought about Toni. He loved Gilbert, dammit, but not fully. Not when he still loved Toni.

 _I can still love him._ Lovino realized. _But I have to let him go. I have to move on. Toni's not here anymore, but Gilbert is, and he loves me as much as Toni ever had._ His throat grew scratchy and his eyes stung with tears. _Toni, I'm sorry, dammit. But I'll still have you… I promised you, didn't I, bastard?_ His hand found the cross hanging around his neck and closed around it, holding it tightly.

_I didn't deserve you. I never did. I was an asshole, and you still loved me… dammit._

_Why is everything always so hard for me? What did I ever do?_

Lovino sniffed and tried to make it into a cough. Then he felt someone grab his hand.

Feliciano was looking at him, concerned. "Lovi, don't cry. Everything will be okay, ve."

Lovino blinked and was about to launch into an angry denial, but he closed his mouth and clasped Feliciano's hand back.

_You're such a fucking idiot, Feli, you don't even know…_

Lovino was crying.

* * *

Ludwig walked up to the head of the group and stopped them all.

"All right, there's a road just up ahead." He motioned to it, and everyone before him went pale. "Don't tell me that I was the only one who saw it. I say we head toward it—"

"I thought we all agreed that we would stay away from anything that might be traveled by other people," Alfred spoke up firmly.

Ludwig frowned. "You did not let me finish. As I was saying, we should head toward the road and follow it, though at a safe enough distance that anyone traveling on the road will not see us."

"Why?" Alfred continued. It wasn't like he was trying to be annoying. It was more out of apprehension caused by all the other encounters that came with going anywhere near human structures that was Alfred's problem.

Ludwig understood that and held his gaze levelly. "We have no map other than the stars, and even then those are not entirely reliable. We need to know where we are going, and following the roads will help guide us through the country." Before Alfred could oppose him further, Ludwig added, "I know it's a risk, but we cannot keep wandering around blindly if we wish to reach the capital as soon as possible."

Everyone was silent, and then Arthur said, "It's worth a shot."

"Ve," Feliciano spoke up. "I want to try it. It's lonely traveling so far away from everything. I miss seeing the roads." In all honesty, Feliciano was terrified to go anywhere near where people might be, but because Ludwig loved him, he felt it was his responsibility to support him.

Everyone stared. Lovino blinked in surprise. He had never trusted any German's word, but Feliciano… he may be an airheaded dumbass, but he still had good judgment of people. Somehow or another, his brother always made such good friends, and that was something that Lovino was jealous of. Feliciano could sense the goodness in people. Though Ludwig had yet to show anything appealing to Lovino…

… Then again, Lovino _did_ have Gilbert—who, if anything, was even more of an idiot than his potato-headed brother.

"It would be nice if we could get to the fucking capital faster…" Lovino mumbled just loud enough for Ludwig to hear.

Kiku was definitely wary about this. But there was something in Lovino agreeing with Ludwig that made him feel… comfortable with the change in plan. "Hai, but we must be careful."

And so the votes went around the entire group, some mulling over it for a good while until they finally agreed. Then only Alfred was left, his jaw slack with disbelief.

"Guys," he addressed them indignantly. "Have you lost your fucking minds? Remember what happened to Marge? How about Francis? I guess none of you care if it happens, but just wait until it happens to _you_. Then it'll hit you like a fucking freight train, and you'll be sorry you never listened to me."

"Alfred," Ivan warned, his tone low. "Now is not the time to be argumentative."

"I can be argumentative as much as I goddamn want," Alfred snapped at him. "We went into town _twice_. And _twice_ something bad happened. People _die_ in towns. A road is no different. Roads lead to people, and all of them are murderous bastards."

Arthur, still looking pale and sickly, tried to raise his voice as much as he could, though it was hard in his weakened state. "Majority vote, Alfred. Just like you always want. Your opinion in this situation does not matter."

Alfred rounded on him and was about to yell, but then he saw Arthur's wounds, his tired eyes, his ill complexion—his iron-melting glare. So he lowered his voice. "Watch. You'll be the first to go."

Arthur's glare wavered for a moment and only that. He knew Alfred always said hurtful things when he was angry. He'd learned long ago not to take it to heart. He straightened and glared back with twice the power. " _You_ will watch," he flashed back. "And you will learn."

Alfred didn't know how to respond to that, so he shut his mouth. He was still brooding inside and found himself glaring at Arthur as the Briton turned back around to further discuss Ludwig's suggestion. Then he caught himself.

 _What am I doing?_ Alfred mused. _I'm such a bitch. Was that how I sounded during my revolution?_ He remembered.

 _"Ungrateful brat,"_ Arthur had called him so many names then. _"Dim child," "Pretentious boy."_ But it had all been true. Alfred had come to realize this long before, though he hated to admit it. Arthur had gotten him to his feet… and Alfred had repaid him by saying he hated him. Arthur had given him that same look: filled with ire but also with a certain disappointment.

 _"I gave you everything, Alfred,_ everything _. And now this… you really are such a child, you'll never make it without me. Just look how thick you're being. You can't even control the natives. You're not ready, Alfred, and this world will eat you alive!"_ And he had seen through Arthur's anger, could see the fear the Briton had held for him. And Alfred had almost given in, almost ran into Arthur's arms and said he was sorry and that Arthur was right, that he was just a child.

Almost…

 _"I've never hated you."_ Arthur's words on the plane still hung heavy on his mind. Arthur had saved his life, and Alfred was angry at himself for being such a jerk. Had he always been this much of an asshole?

He found himself looking over at Matthew, and the Canadian was studying him. When their eyes met, Matthew shook his head, and Alfred looked away. Arthur was good at hiding his hurts… and Alfred knew his words had cut deep. He had basically told him he was going to die, and that when he did Alfred would be there, standing over his corpse, sneering that he had told him so, that he should have _listened_ , that _he_ was the child.

Alfred's stomach turned over at the thought. _I wasn't ready. Just look at what I've become._ He was so goddamned selfish and brutal on a whim. His knuckles were still sore, still bore the scars and bruises from pounding Higgins's face in—like an animal.

Ivan sensed his unease and tugged Alfred's arm, urging him closer to his side. "You have lost much. You did not mean what you said."

"Doesn't matter," Alfred muttered. "I still said it."

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Just a drabble of how conflicted everyone is with their emotions. Shit's gotten complicated when I paired everyone up, huh? And America is being cute in a threatening way. It's his thing, don't judge him! (Except when he was being mean to England. You can judge him on that).

And I'm sorry this is being posted so incredibly late. I went to see _Gravity_ and it took me a while to come down from all the angst that caused me. I can't even snorkel cause I'm so scared of not being able to breathe (Imma lame retard sometimes, people, but really). Anyway, I've been wanting to see it and, holy shit, that was one of the scariest movies I have ever seen, like... ever. I couldn't even eat my munchies cause my stomach was so upset (it kinda gave me vertigo, haha) and that's saying something cause I attack that popcorn bag like it's _the shit_. And then afterward when we had to leave, I got up and my legs were all jittery and... fuck, was it good. Seeing it in 3D would have been way worse for me. Thank God for me being cheap. :3

Annnnyway, I'm not a film critic. But I still suggest it. More relationship stuff next time~!


	67. No Longer the Hunters

**I just had to include my favorite animal.  
**

Warning: Angst, paranoia, Nichu, fluffy stuffs, FrUK, a little smut.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**No Longer the Hunters**

The clouds never broke and the snow began to fall around noon. Ivan looked up at the sky and the snowflakes dancing down, smiling softly. He never knew how much he would miss the snow. It reminded him of home.

But everyone else was surely disgruntled about it. On top of everything that had happened, it would figure that an early snowstorm would roll in and inhibit their progress. Yet they continued to push on, their faces frozen to numbness and their muscles stiff with the cold. Only when Francis's legs gave out and he fell to his knees did anyone stop.

Matthew was rushing over to him immediately. "Papa, are you tired?"

Francis took Matthew's helping hand and struggled to his feet—only to nearly fall again. Matthew caught him and by now everyone was gathering around.

"I'm fine," Francis assured, but he was lying through his teeth. Arthur knew it.

"It's what they did to you, isn't it?" Arthur hated bringing the subject up, but he needed to know.

Francis looked at him long and hard before sighing. "Oui… I thought the soreness would go away, but it seems like they did more damage than I thought."

Arthur immediately felt guilty. Guilty that he had contributed to that pain, that he had given in to Francis's pleas even when he knew it would only make it worse.

"There's a copse of trees up ahead," Ludwig said, motioning to them. "They might help buffer the wind. We can make camp there."

And they set off, Yao looking over his shoulder. It seemed like they had not traveled far, but judging by the distance of the plateaus and various rock formations behind them, they must have gone at least thirty miles. Not their best record, but then again the snow was hindering them and they needed a break. He glanced at Kiku.

What was the man thinking? His expression was always blank. Though Yao loved Kiku with all his heart, he hated that part of him. He never knew how Kiku was feeling, what his thoughts were, and that was worrying. For all he knew Kiku could be on the edge of collapse and he looked perfectly fine.

Yao knew it was hard for Kiku, being this close to someone. The Japanese had never opened up to anyone, not even when he had opened up his country. Oh sure, he made people think they knew him, but Yao knew better. Yao knew Kiku, and there was no denying that Kiku loved and feared him for that reason. If only Yao could convince Kiku that he could trust him then maybe they could make this work. He saw how Kiku was after their loving: red-faced, meek, and aloof. Kiku's demureness made him incredibly cute, but now it was forming a wall between them. After sex—an act which should naturally prompt openness for its breaking down of barriers—Kiku barely wanted to talk, and he would much rather turn over and sleep than converse with Yao. It hurt Yao, but he knew the reason behind it. He knew Kiku.

He would have to go slow, though it didn't seem like the ideal move with everything going so fast. He had to if he wished to make any progress. And he already had a plan.

Coming up beside Kiku, Yao took the smaller man's hand in his. Kiku flinched and looked at him with those big, brown eyes, lips parting to say something.

"I love you, yīnghuā." Yao muttered and softly kissed Kiku's cheek. He could feel the heat rising to it when he moved away, letting go of Kiku's hand and going back to walking silently beside him.

Kiku blinked at him, but Yao just kept staring forward. What was he getting at, grabbing him like that and doing something so… _intimate_ among others? Kiku was blushing like mad, but at least the heat warmed his face.

They arrived at the copse just in time. The snow had picked up as well as the wind, whipping the chilled flakes into their faces. They all decided it was futile to attempt to pitch tents, so they quickly settled down with their backs to the wind, wrapping their sleeping bags around each other and huddling close as Gilbert tried to start a fire.

"Damn… fucking… lighter," Gilbert growled as his thumb began to get abrasions from running over the spark wheel.

After a few more minutes of fruitless effort, Ludwig huffed and snatched the lighter out of Gilbert's hand.

"Hey!"

"This is useless," he told him, tossing the lighter into a small snowdrift just outside of the tree line.

Matthew was a bit hesitant at first, but he dug through his pockets and gave Gilbert his lighter. "Here. I think it's the last one…eh."

Francis frowned at him, Matthew shrugged, and Gilbert lit the small pile of dry tinder they had managed to find among the leaf litter.

"This whole 'cutting straight through' shit will freeze my fucking balls off before the end," Lovino grumbled, pulling his sleeping bag further around himself.

"Well I certainly hope not," Gilbert teased, and when Lovino gave him a glare, he quickly added, "I can just imagine how pleasant you would be, kesesese."

"It is just snow," Ivan said. He was the only one whose sleeping bag was piled in his lap instead of wrapped around his shoulders. "You get used to it after a while."

"We don't have a while," Sadiq said. "If this is just autumn, we're screwed."

"I don't care," Alfred snapped, though he was quickly beginning to loathe his decision. "I want those bastard's asses as a Christmas present."

Ludwig was about to tell them to stop complaining when a ghostly howl made the hairs stand up on the back of his neck.

_"Aaaaaoooooooooo."_

Everyone stiffened.

_"Aaaooooaaaoooooooo."_

Ivan smiled. "The first wolf of winter is always the hungriest~"

Alfred nudged him sharply in the ribs. "Shut up."

"Ve, what does it want?" Feliciano asked, drawing closer to Ludwig.

"It's a rallying howl," Matthew answered. "The alpha is calling the pack to the hunt."

Arthur frowned. "But I thought… wolves go where their prey are?"

"They do."

"But there are no animals here. They've all gone south."

_"AAAAOOOOOOOOOOOAAAOOOOOOO."_

Matthew's heart began to pound. " _We_ haven't gone south."

Alfred's eyes widened and he swallowed. "Oh shit."

"Stop blowing it out of proportion," Arthur chided, though he shifted uneasily where he sat. "I'm sure they're just tracking some lame herd animal. We have nothing to worry about."

"Some of us are lame," Sadiq murmured and everyone was quiet for a moment.

"They will not dare attack us," Ivan assured. "if they know the cruelty of men. Though since they have chosen not to leave with the herds, they will follow us. It seems we have picked up some furred vultures."

" _That_ will help me sleep at night," Gilbert scowled and he looked over his shoulder.

"The day grows dark," Ludwig said, looking at Ivan. "Your magic might be useful in this situation."

Ivan nodded and stood. He turned his back to them and inhaled deeply. He blew out, and ice crystals formed out of his breath. Within a few minutes, he constructed a wall of ice six feet high. Afterward, panting, he sat heavily down.

"I still have not regained the energy I spent fighting Agramon," he explained. "I'm afraid I will not be able to construct another wall after this."

The wolves howled once more before the clouds grew a deep indigo and then all was silent. The cold was making them numb, and yet they remained seated in a tight little circle around the fire, moving ever closer as day turned to night. No one spoke. They were all too cold and miserable to. No one moved. No one would admit that the prospect of the wolves following them was starkly frightening and that the fire was indeed their only protection by way of light and warmth.

And why _were_ they afraid? They were just wolves.

 _Just wolves,_ Francis mused. _A mistake made before._ The first howl had brought memories to the forefront of his mind—bad memories that should rightfully be buried.

That vicious pack of wolves that entered Paris in 1450, killing all of forty before they were slain before Notre Dame. The Wolves of Soissons that attacked eighteen people, killing four in 1765. And barely a year after that the Wolves of Périgord—the pack of four that left eighteen people dead in their wake, but were eventually shot themselves. The female's head was brought to the king to reap payment for the elimination of the wolf, and Francis, curious, had peered inside the bloody mouth, seeing two rows of teeth lining her bottom jaw. Flesh still clung in strips to the fangs.

Francis shivered and moved closer to Arthur. The Briton noticed but only offered him a glance before staring once again myopically at the fire. During that time in 1450, Francis had been there. He had seen the wolves rip the throat out of a woman trying to get away. Everyone had thought the walls of Paris were well fortified against such beasts of the outside. And they had been mistaken. Sorely mistaken. Just as Francis had been mistaken that the political walls of his government would offer enough stability to keep similar wolves from breaching them.

When he finally did go to bed (taking leave after Arthur), Francis was still plagued with the thoughts. After all of their struggles, after all the hell they'd been through, they could not let themselves become prey to wolves. They had too much yet to accomplish.

 _Mère Nature always has her way,_ Francis thought as he settled down on his sleeping bag.

_And mercy is not one of her virtues._

Arthur looked over at him worriedly. "Francis, you don't look so… well."

"You do not either, cher."

"You know what I mean."

Francis sighed. "Why does everything have to be against us?"

Arthur shook his head. "Nature never takes sides."

"Je sais," Francis replied, looking down at Arthur's bandaged hands. "How are you?"

Arthur caught Francis's staring and hid them. "Well enough. I'll get along. Minor burns aren't anything to me."

Francis gave him a skeptical look. "You think that after all the years of knowing you I still cannot tell when you are lying?"

"I'm not lying," Arthur told him firmly. "These burns won't hold me back."

"That is not the lie I was talking about."

Arthur stared at him for a moment then looked at the ground. "They will heal on their own. The rest of the world won't." Before Francis could respond, Arthur grabbed the hem of his own sweater and tried to pull it off. He screwed up his face in pain, though it was obvious he was trying to hide it.

"Let me, amour." Francis said, taking the sweater in his own hands. Arthur let go of it and watched him. When the garment was off and they met eyes, Francis said, "Le feu ne peut pas tuer un incendie." He ran his fingers down Arthur's chest, his stomach, his hips. "But even fire is harmed by the cold. You will be sick."

Arthur smiled. "Don't you remember? Sleeping naked preserves body heat. Or were your soldiers not told that?"

Francis smirked and undressed himself before finishing off the rest of Arthur's clothes. "Honhon, there was no need to tell them. It was instinct to them." He pulled Arthur to him so that their skin touched. The Briton shivered, though from the cold or the close contact Francis couldn't tell. "But it should be instinct to be close to you in this way, non?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "You never stop being a frog, do you?"

Francis shrugged. "I cannot help it. It is in my nature." Then he added with a smile, "And you are too beautiful for me not to be."

Arthur scoffed but blushed noticeably. "Whatever. Get your arse into the sleeping bag before we really do freeze our bollocks off."

Francis lifted the sleeping bag. "You first, mon chéri."

And then they were both laying skin-to-skin, warmer than they had been all day. Francis took Arthur's hands in his. "They still burn."

Arthur snatched them away. "Oh, stop fretting. I'll get on. The more you fuss the worse it will be."

Francis sighed. "What am I to do with you?"

"Kiss me, twat, that's what," Arthur snapped. "Do you think I'm laying this close to you naked for nothing? Stupid frog."

Francis didn't say anything, just kissed him. It was a needy kiss, a desperate kiss, but it was perfect to both of them. Francis could tell that Arthur wanted more, and he rolled on top of him. The Briton blinked up at him.

"You're not top—"

"Ah-ah," Francis chided with a smile. "Your hands, cher."

Arthur huffed but their lips met again. He didn't like the idea of bottoming a _frog_. But his hands _were_ incapable of doing much… as much as Arthur hated to admit it. And it seemed only fair that Francis should top after Arthur had—

"Ah, Francis~" The man's lips had moved to his neck, his fingers brushing over his nipples. "Oh, mmm."

Francis sucked at the junction between Arthur's neck and shoulder. He was aware of the dull ache in his own ass with every move he made, but he ignored it for Arthur's sake. It was obvious the Briton needed this.

"Arthur, mon amour," Francis murmured against his warm skin, trailing kisses up to his lover's ear.

Arthur scoffed and turned his head. "Shut up already with the bloody frog language." And he captured Francis's lips again.

Francis responded in kind, coaxing Arthur's lips apart so he could slip a tongue inside. Arthur's arms came up to wrap around his neck and pull him close and Francis could feel the Briton's hardness against him.

 _"AAAAAOOOOOOOOOOO_."

The two jumped apart. Francis looked in the direction of the howl. It seemed to be coming from just outside of the camp. His whole body became stiff and his cock was soft within seconds.

Arthur shifted below him. "Francis? It's just a wolf—"

But Francis ignored him and waited until the howling was finished, staring for just a few more seconds before rolling back into his spot behind Arthur, holding the Briton close to him. "Je suis désolé, amant." he muttered, shivering. "Another time."

Arthur couldn't _believe_ this shit. They had been so close to sexing it up and Francis had to stop just because a wolf howled? Now Arthur had a raging hard-on he didn't have any idea what to do with. _Selfish prat,_ he mused, trying to will his erection away. For a few minutes he lay there, brooding and blueballing before he couldn't take it and whispered a spell. His cock went limp immediately and he breathed a sigh of relief. But he could feel his energy being sapped away by the use of magic.

 _Don't start something you can't finish, frog,_ Arthur wanted to say, but Francis was already softly snoring—or at least pretending to.

* * *

Translations:

Le feu ne peut pas tuer un incendie-Fire cannot kill a fire

Je suis désolé-I'm sorry

A Word From the Writer: Fuck, I'm sorry, but I just love cockblocking. I dunno why it entertains me so much, but it was kinda fun to write France not wanting to have sex (because it's really rare). I feel bad for England, but, meh, he'll live. And will he ever bottom? Hmmm...

Nichu exists. It EXISTS! I overuse this pairing a lot, but I think it's really cute, y'know? Just like Turcan... WHY YOU NO HAVE FOLLOWING TURCAN?! TT^TT

Oh, and I've been meaning to say this for a shit ton of chapters now, but this whole fic was inspired by a song. Yes, a song, though it's not really a song fic, per se. Anyway, at the time I was obsessed with Green Day's "Holiday." It's not really an apocalyptic song, but I just liked how it inspired rebellion 'n stuff. I was originally going to include the song in the title of the fic, but I scrapped that and came up with a better one. I could say there are many songs that would go along with this (but not "Radioactive." God, they've just about killed that and it's so horribly cliché), but I tend to listen to "In the End" by Black Veil Brides and "Dear Agony" by Breaking Benjamin as I'm writing, especially the latter when it comes to the sad scenes. As for the radio, I boycott it. I belong in the 80s with metal and grunge and rock, not all this "You broke up with me and I'm gonna write a song about it for the millionth fucking time" shit. Goddamn, people, give it a rest. If it bothers you that much that you can't keep a piece of ass, buy yourself a blow up doll. They don't talk back, they don't nag, they aren't bitchy, and, hey, fucks whenever you want! :D

Hahaha. I'm forever alone. -_-


	68. What Cannot Be Said

**MOAR smut~  
**

Warning: Lemon, Prumano, RusAme, angst, paranoia, fluff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**What Cannot Be Said**

"Ficken, Lovino!" Gilbert moaned. The Italian was lying on top of him, moving on his cock.

Lovino dug his nails into Gilbert's skin. "Don't be so loud, dammit! Do you want everyone to hear us fucking?"

"Maybe if you kiss me I will be a little quieter," Gilbert quipped. Lovino rolled his eyes, but brought their lips together, tongues sliding past each other. When they parted, Gilbert lifted his hips up to meet Lovino's onslaught. "Would it be too much to ask you to go a little faster? Mein awesome five meters needs a little more attention than that."

"Shut up, bastard," Lovino growled, nipping the pale skin on his lover's neck. "I'm the one in control."

"Only because you insisted."

"I like riding, dammit. I thought we already discussed this."

"Ja, ja, it satisfies your need for 'dominance.'" Then a bit quieter Gilbert added, "However _that_ works with my awesome dick in your ass…"

"What was that, bastard?"

"I said move a little faster, or I will roll us over and fuck you that way."

"You'd better not, bastard."

"Your nickname for me is so loving. I can tell you really care about me when you say it."

"All right, _all right_ , dammit! I'll go faster. Che, whatever gets you to shut your fucking annoying mouth." And so he sped things along, though he would never admit that he would be content just to ride Gilbert's thick cock all night.

Gilbert's cock twitched and swelled inside of Lovino. "Mm, ja, that's more like it."

"You will never fucking shut up, will you?"

"Hey, it comes with my awesome cock. Deal with it, kesese!"

Despite his annoyance and Gilbert's incessant, idiotic talking, Lovino was getting very close. Hell, he'd been close just a few minutes into them starting. He'd just been trying to get as much out of it as he could. He fucking deserved a good hour of dicking after that exorcism he did!

But Gilbert, ever the impatient one, had been nagging him throughout and he was getting tired of it. He loved Gilbert—even though it still seemed absurd for him to think it—but the Prussian seriously needed a muzzle. A big one to match his big mouth of which he knew none big enough to fit.

Lovino was close, though he needed one last push to get him over. There really was only one way to do it; in the position Lovino was in—with him laying nearly chest-to-chest with Gilbert—there wasn't much he could do about movement. Plus, it was just awkward. But it was damn cold outside their sleeping bag and he and Gilbert had accumulated a considerable amount of sweat between them. Still, he needed that push.

So he said fuck it to the cold and sat up. Both he and Gilbert moaned when Lovino sunk all the way down on his cock.

"Oh, Lovino," Gilbert moaned and moved his hips up into him.

Lovino shivered. Not from the cold, but from the way his name rolled sensually off Gilbert's tongue. He began to move, and Gilbert's hands came up to hold his hips and guide him.

"Mm, fuck, so close," Lovino groaned and sped up his movements. "Gilbert… Gilbert!"

He threw his head back when he came, moaning out his release. Warm cum covered Gilbert's stomach and chest, and Lovino's insides clamped possessively around the cock spearing him.

Lovino had stopped moving, so Gilbert took over for him. He held Lovino's hips down as he drilled deep into him, making Lovino yelp with the rough pounds to his oversensitive prostate. With a growl, Gilbert shot his load into Lovino's ass.

His orgasm passed, Lovino felt immediately the sharpness of the cold on his slick skin. Without minding the sticky mess he had created between them, Lovino lay on top of him, breathless and sated.

They kissed a few times before Gilbert said, "We should probably clean up a bit."

Tired as they were, they tended to the mess. As their skin was bare and moist with sweat, they were more than eager to be inside the sleeping bag again. They lay close together, legs tangled and facing each other.

"Days are getting colder," Gilbert muttered, his grip on Lovino increasing. "The question is are we prepared for it?"

Lovino huffed. "Che, stop being all pessimistic. Winters have been worse for us before and we have survived them."

"Ja, but not as humans. Humans die from the cold all the time."

Lovino didn't know how to counter that, so he just remained silent. How _would_ they survive the winter? Nothing in nature could; trees shed their leaves, plants died, animals hibernated or headed south to warmer places… oh sure, there were pines and other living things that weathered the cold, but they were adapted for that. Humans were not. Humans followed a food source to more favorable environments or stayed in one place because they were used to the harsh conditions—what they were doing now was playing with fire. Arthur had played with it once and it had not turned out well for him. But that had only been a spark. What would happen when the blizzards rolled in, when they were trudging through snow several feet thick? They had left their homes in a hurry, unprepared for anything more than mild, snowy forecasts. There were so many 'what if's about the whole affair that it made Lovino's head hurt just thinking about it.

"Don't think about that," Lovino told himself more than he told Gilbert. But he knew no matter how much he didn't think about it, he would still be subconsciously aware of it. The matter would be a low drone in the back of his mind, reminding him at every turn and instance that this whole plan could be the death of them.

"It's hard not to," Gilbert murmured, echoing Lovino's thoughts, and he went silent again. Then he said, "You can count on the awesome me to keep you warm, kesese!"

Lovino scoffed. "Easy, bastard. Only in the tent."

Gilbert chuckled and intertwined his fingers with Lovino's. "Would it be too unawesome if I said you have been the best thing I've had in a long while?"

Lovino's heart began to pound and he knew the Prussian could feel it against his chest. He couldn't believe he was reacting this way to those words coming from Gilbert of all people and his stupid voice. He looked up at him and tried to calm himself. "Are you just saying that because the fucking Uprising has kept you isolated for a 'long while'?"

Gilbert kissed Lovino's forehead. "Nein, the Uprising has kept me busy. I never thought how much I went without until you came into the picture."

Lovino stiffened. "Without what?" _Please say sex, please say sex._ Lovino didn't think he could handle Gilbert saying anything other than that without being… oversensitive.

Gilbert frowned at him in confusion. "You, of course. Ich liebe dich."

It was different from when Toni said it to him, but the impact was the same. Lovino had not outright told Gilbert that he loved him; that subject seemed too sensitive to breach before. But now it only seemed right that he should say it—no matter how corny and soap opera-ish it sounded.

Lovino continued to look at Gilbert's red eyes which he had come to adore, very aware that tears were pushing at his own. He didn't think he could do it… after Toni died, he thought he would be alone forever. He always had been until Toni, why not after? He had long accepted that he was a difficult person to deal with and it took a special someone to be his lover. When he'd found that someone in Toni, after so many years of running away from him and denying it to himself, he was sure that they would be in love forever. Then the Uprising happened, and Lovino's world fell apart, just like everything good always fell apart for him. He should have known.

And then Gilbert came along. It was an unlikely match and Lovino had been sure it would fail on a few occasions, but it had worked out better than he had dreamed. Him and a potato bastard. Go figure. It had taken him so long to find love that he was sure he would never find it again once Toni had passed. Now he had Gilbert, and he couldn't be more grateful.

Not that Gilbert had to know all this.

Lovino wet his lips and began, "Gilbert, you're a stupid bastard, but I—"

 _"AAAAAOOOOOOOOOOO_."

They both tensed and Lovino nearly yelped with how tight Gilbert suddenly held him. "They sound close," the Prussian muttered.

Lovino was too stricken to say anything, his heart pounding against his ribcage. What if Ivan's wall had melted? What if the wolves had broken through? Who knew how long the pack had been starving? Who knew if they would be desperate enough to go for human flesh?

Lovino hated it, but he couldn't do anything but cling to Gilbert and bury his face in the Prussian's chest. He couldn't run, so holding onto whatever safe thing was nearby was his only alternative.

"They will not get in," Gilbert assured him. "The Russian bastard has a way with maintaining walls, I should know."

" _'_ _Perhaps the day may come when we shall remember these sufferings with joy.'_ "

Gilbert looked at him strangely. "What?"

"I'm quoting Virgil."

Gilbert's gaze went vacant and Lovino frowned. "The _Roman_ _poet_."

"Oh, ja," Gilbert said, though it was obvious he was faking realization. " _That_ guy. I remember him."

 _How can you, dumbass? You weren't alive!_ But Lovino went on, "It's something I always say to myself when I don't know what's going to happen. And I just thought that maybe, if we do manage to survive this shit that… at least I got you out of it."

Gilbert's eyes lost their vacant look and he smiled. Lovino blushed and looked away. "But d-d-don't let it go to your head, bastard!"

Gilbert just kept smiling that annoying, stupid smile—the one that made Lovino's heart flutter. The Prussian just held him and suddenly the wolves outside didn't matter anymore.

Gilbert placed a kiss on Lovino's forehead. "You blush as red as a tomato."

"Sh-shut up!"

* * *

Alfred listened to the wolves howl close by, shivering where he lay. He was pressed up against Ivan who was laying beside him.

"Go to sleep, Alfred," Ivan mumbled, his back to him, trying to get some rest after a long day of travel and regain the energy lost by constructing the ice wall. "They are just animals. And there is a wall up around us."

"Easy for you to say," Alfred snapped, though his voice was tremulous. "You were probably raised by them. Like in that story."

"That story is Roman. And a myth (1)."

"So you're not denying that you were raised by wolves?"

Ivan sighed deeply. "Alfred, would you prefer to go to sleep by yourself or for me to knock you out with my pipe?"

"… by myself…"

"Then _go to sleep_."

But Alfred _couldn't_ sleep. As much of a hero as he was, wolves prowling just outside a camp would scare the shit out of anyone.

Except, apparently, Russia. But he didn't count.

He wriggled deeper into the sleeping bag until only his nose up was exposed to the air and then scooted further into Ivan. The howls had stopped, but Alfred _knew_ they were out there, _knew_ they were probably looking for a way to get to them and tear out their throats during the night—

Alfred couldn't stand it. "Vanya?"

Ivan sighed again, keeping his eyes closed. " _Da_ , Alfred?"

"What you said about the winter wolves being the hungriest or whatever… is that true?"

"Da. Winter is a time of perpetual hunger for every animal. Of course they would be hungry."

That didn't make Alfred feel better _at all_.

He rolled over and hugged Ivan from behind.

"Let's have sex." At least sex would distract from the horrors that lurked outside…

Ivan's eyes came open. "What? Now? It is late, Alfred, and both of us are tired—"

"No," Alfred said firmly. "I wanna have sex. C'mon, turn over."

"Nyet. I am comfortable."

"C'mon."

"No, Alfred."

"Really, please? I can ride. I'll do all the work. You can just lay there."

"No,"

" _Please_?"

"Nyet, I said."

Alfred huffed in defeat and turned over so that his back was to Ivan. "You don't love me, you liar," he pouted.

Ivan shifted until he had his bare chest pressed against Alfred's back and had an arm looped around his middle. Alfred gave a surprised yelp as Ivan pulled his lover close to him. "Do not be so melodramatic. We both know that we're tired. Apparently you need someone to watch over you like a puppy to make sure you perform basic biological functions—like sleeping."

"Nuh uh. After Artie left me, I was perfectly fine!"

"Alfred, I do not want to start this argument. I know that you want to be held, so now that I am holding you will you shut up and go to sleep?"

Alfred didn't know how to reply, so he just huffed again, though he pressed further back into Ivan and placed his hand over the Russian's, which was holding him around the belly.

"Am I really that easy to read?"

"You are transparent," Ivan told him wearily. His nose was in the nape of Alfred's neck, ensconcing it in warmth. "Now sleep."

And Alfred did.

* * *

Translations:

Ficken-Fuck

Ich liebe dich-I love you

References:

(1) Refers to the Roman myth of the twin brothers Romulus and Remus who were born to Rhea Silvia, daughter to the king of Alba Longa. Before their birth, the throne was usurped by the king's brother Amulius, who then kills all of his male heirs and forces Rhea Silvia into a life of chastity as a Vestal Virgin. However, the war god Mars visits her and she conceives. When Amulius discovers her pregnancy, he awaits the twins' birth and then orders one of his servants to drown them. But the servant cannot bring himself to, and instead puts the twins in a basket and lets them float downstream. Tiberinus, a river god, discovers the basket and allows it to catch on foliage. A she-wolf visiting the river sees the infants and carries them off, suckling them while a woodpecker fed them. Eventually a shepherd and his wife find the boys and raise them as their own. When the boys are grown, they become shepherds themselves and Remus encounters some of Amulius's shepherds, getting into conflict with them. They capture him and take him before Amulius who discovers his identity but is smote down by Romulus who brought a band of friends to rescue his brother. In return, they were both offered the throne, but they refused and restored the previous king to it. Then they head off to found a city of their own but could not agree on a location. Romulus wanted to build it on Palatine Hill, but Remus preferred Aventine Hill. They asked the gods for their opinion and they favored Romulus, but Remus built his city on his chosen hill anyway. They both began construction, and Remus began to make fun of Romulus's wall. He leapt over it to show that it is not nearly high enough to keep invaders out, but is promptly killed by his brother. Romulus states that whoever leaps the wall of his city will suffer the same fate, and with regret he buries his brother. And thus the city of Rome was born under Romulus's rule.

A Word From the Writer: D'awww, cute. Russia is a little passive-aggressive with fluff when he's tired. And then you got a nice little Prumano lemon going on. I kinda got caught up in writing lemon around this point, people. I just had to purge it out of my system before the actual sad and killing and violence stuffs. By the way, I should have said this before but I totally predicted Prince George's gender a million chapters ago. I think it was in the chapter 'Scars.' I know it's not really impressive (honestly it was just a lucky guess), but I had a feeling. His christening reminded me, lol.

Anywho, chaos is coming. And so is death. SOON.


	69. Sharing the Love

**Turkey-more corny than horny. HURR.  
**

Warning: Fluff, TurCan, RusAme, Prumano, Nichu, GerIta, FrUK.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

  
**Sharing the Love  
**   


The next morning dawned with unusual brightness. Matthew opened his eyes and within moments he knew why and smiled.

"It snowed."

" _Great_ ," Sadiq mumbled beside him, making Matthew jump. "How fucking convenient."

"Oh, come on. It's just snow!"

"As if we haven't got enough things stacked against us," Sadiq grumbled and sat up, shivering. His hood had been draped over his eyes for the entire night and now he pulled his overcoat on, hiding his face as he did so. Matthew chuckled.

"What?"

"You really are serious about that mask thing."

"Yeah," Sadiq said, not really knowing why himself. He'd have to investigate that. "I just like having my face covered."

Matthew wriggled out of the sleeping bag, naked. Sadiq nearly exposed all his face by looking up to study him, then quickly remembered himself. Even so, he couldn't pull his gaze away. "You really are beautiful. I hope you know that."

Matthew looked at him and blushed. "Uh… yeah, thanks. But I can't wait to see you. You're probably hiding a lot more than everyone thinks under that hood."

"Or maybe I'm just the Phantom of the Opera under here," Sadiq joked. "You never know."

Matthew giggled. "I doubt that." He leaned in to kiss him, and Sadiq quickly captured his lips. Sadiq ended the kiss sooner than Matthew would have liked and pulled their sleeping bag around his naked form.

"You'll get sick being naked like that," Sadiq told him and looked him over once more. He couldn't believe he had not noticed the Canadian before. He was one of the cutest, prettiest things he had ever seen. _I hope I'm not falling too hard,_ Sadiq mused. _Can he tell?_ He peered up at Matthew from beneath his hood and found the Canadian smiling at his ogling. _Of course he can. France raised him._ He licked his lips and tried to compose himself… he could feel himself hardening and there was no place for that now. "D-do you always sleep naked?"

Matthew giggled again. Such a sweet little giggle. "Well, um, Francis did rub off on me in that way." Then he added when he realized the double meaning of his own words, "Oh, um, I mean, not literally, just uh—"

"Just get dressed, you cute, flustered thing," Sadiq laughed, tossing Matthew his clothes and watching him dress himself. Despite his deep blush, Matthew slipped into his clothes sensually. It didn't look like he was doing it on purpose, but it seemed that way to Sadiq. He could feel a stirring in his groin. Francis's influence… again. "You know," he said. "I like sweets, but you're the best one I've ever had. I think we should go our separate ways, because pretty soon, I will have a bad case of high blood sugar from you."

Matthew looked so adorable with his face scrunched up in laughter like that. Words couldn't describe how much Sadiq wanted him right then.

"Oh, please don't, you corny dork. I'll be less sweet to you if you want, though it might be hard."

"Don't you change a thing," Sadiq said, kissing him on the lips again. "And I know it would be hard for you to be anything but sweet, sweet." He got to his feet and extended a hand to help Matthew up.

The Canadian turned to go out, and Sadiq suddenly had an impulse to grab his hand. Startled, Matthew looked at him questioningly, leaving Sadiq to grope around for some sort of explanation.

_"_ _Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime. Lead me, save me from my solitude. Say you'll want me with you here beside you. Anywhere you go, let me go too. Mattie, that's all I ask of..."_

There was an awkward pause where Matthew stared at him, face flushing. "I… I, uh… you are such a tease!" Matthew accused, smiling. "Quoting from the part where Christine takes off the Phantom's mask and denying me that very pleasure just moments ago? What cruelty."

Sadiq blinked. He… honestly hadn't really known which part that was. That was really the only quote he could remember and only because he'd wanted to impress Heracles. "I'm sorry, sweet, but that will come in time. So what do you say?"

Matthew flushed deeper and looked away. "Uh… that's kind of a lot to request of me for us just getting together a couple of days ago…"

Sadiq grabbed both of Matthew's hands and brought them to his lips. The Canadian was a bright shade of scarlet now. "Mattie, you're so beautiful. Please say you'll be mine."

_Fuck, what am I turning into?_

Matthew looked up at Sadiq, mouth opening to respond—and then there was a slapping on the tent.

"Aufstehen!" came Ludwig's hard voice from outside. "Up! Get up, we must be moving!"

And just like that the mood was spoiled. Reality crashed down around them once again, and the weight of the world on their shoulders left no room for love. "Um," Matthew said, intelligently so. "We should get going. Oh, and, I, uh, forgot…" He rifled through his backpack and took out a bandana. It was black with two holes cut in it. Sadiq stared at it quizzically for a few moments before Matthew explained, "For you. It's a mask. I kind of thought it was important for the unmasking when we finally get to it…" _God, I hope it's soon._ All night Matthew had been thinking about it, the sex. He hadn't had any in a while and he felt guilty and embarrassed to be subjecting the fantasy Sadiq to all of the dirty things his mind came up with. Just sleeping next to him in the nude was enough for Matthew's dreams to run away with the thoughts.

By the time Sadiq put on his new mask and they stepped outside, most everyone was up. Lovino and Gilbert were the last ones out, looking unusually refreshed and happy. Lovino looked _happy._ When did that ever happen? Was it a sign? Was the earth going to be sucked into a giant black hole now?

"All right," Ludwig said, standing in the center of the camp. The ice wall was still up and loomed high above them, catching the dawn light and casting prisms of color on the ground. Of the wolves, there was no sign. "Before we begin packing, I must address an issue I believe may be detrimental to the sanctity of our group." He took a deep breath. This wasn't going to easy and might chagrin them all, but it had to be said. "We all know of Alfred and Ivan's relationship."

Immediately all eyes went to the two. Alfred looked away uncomfortably, but Ivan just stared back in an almost threatening way. Everyone stopped staring after that.

"Ahem, now. I know this is not the only relationship. Who else here is paired?" No one said anything, only looked at each other. "Well?"

Francis had been looking to Arthur for permission for a good minute, but the Briton was stubbornly ignoring him. Well, he'd show _him_. He snatched up Arthur's hand and tugged him forward. Before Arthur could so much as open his mouth in protest, Francis pulled Arthur flush against his chest and proclaimed, "Moi and Angleterre are together. He finally submitted to my French charm, and I, of course, could not keep him off me, ohonhonhon~"

Arthur reddened and scowled. "G-get off me, frog! And that's not how it bloody happened!" He managed to get his arms between them and shoved Francis away from him. The Frenchman stumbled, but he was still leering like a frog.

"Wow, bro," Alfred laughed. "The Frenchie finally boinked you, eh?"

Arthur's face reddened further and he righted his wrinkled clothes. "No he most certainly did _not_. So far, _I_ have topped." _Once,_ Arthur thought. _And I almost bottomed last night. If he would have kept going, I would have. We haven't done it once since we arrived at the plains._ Arthur felt guilty wanting to make love to Francis so much when it was obvious that the Frenchman was hurting. He had done it once when he rightfully should not have, and he feared that he hurt Francis more than did good. _Never again,_ Arthur promised. _Not when he's hurt._ As for making love a different way… he might consider.

Kiku wrinkled his nose in confusion. "You top as normal not just as pirate England? Oh… my doujinshis may need major tweaking… you know, after everything is over, hopefully."

Arthur crossed his arms. He knew Kiku's taste in art. He had seen plenty when he had unknowingly wandered into his private library and discovered himself portrayed in very… inaccurate and unflattering ways. Really, who got the thought in their head that he _cried_ like a girl while bottoming? "Oh yes? And are _you_ hiding anything, Kiku?"

Kiku immediately blushed. "Uh…"

Yao grabbed him around the waist and squeezed hard. "He is mine!"

Kiku flailed, gasping. "Y-Yao-chan!"

"Duìbùqǐ, Kiku, but you are so kawaii about it, I could not resist!"

Arthur smirked in triumph and Francis clapped his hands in approval. Eventually Kiku managed to pry Yao off of him, looking more than a little flustered.

"Aw, that is too bad," Francis pouted. "And I never got a chance to play with him~"

Arthur punched him hard in the shoulder, hiding his grimace caused by the pain flaring up from his palm. "Creeping frog!"

"Balivernes," Francis insisted. "You know I will always love you, chéri."

Arthur blushed, and he was still scowling, so it looked quite comical. Alfred laughed, "You two really _are_ together! Dude, I would never have expected it with you trash talking Francis every chance you could get."

Francis frowned and Arthur rounded on Alfred. "Well it was nothing compared to you and Ivan's threats to nuke each other."

Alfred was about to retort, but Ludwig said, "Anyone else?"

"Ve, there's us!" Feliciano chirped and skipped over to take Ludwig's hand. The German's face immediately went red.

"Feli, I told you we were going to go last."

"Ve, but going last is no fun!" Feliciano pouted. "Are you mad?"

Ludwig sighed wearily. "Nein…"

Meanwhile, Gilbert was laughing his ass off and Lovino was looking absolutely furious.

"Kesesese, West, I knew it! How did that happen? Did he find out about your 'poetic' side? Kesesese!"

"Ve," Feliciano looked at his lover curiously. "You write poetry?"

"Um…" Ludwig's whole neck was red now.

"I don't care what the fucker writes," Lovino snapped. "I _will not_ have a potato bastard touching my fratello."

Feliciano frowned. "Ve, but, Lovi, you have Gilbert."

Gilbert stopped laughing at once and Lovino stiffened, all the blood rushing to his face. "Feli!" was all he could get out, though it was more of a squeak.

"How the fuck did you find out?" Gilbert asked, more shocked than meek.

Feliciano smiled. "You two were really loud upstairs in that house. Ludwig and me and Mattie heard a lot!"

Francis raised an eyebrow. " _Heard_ you?" His face was scrunched up in confusion for a moment before he smirked. "Ohon, if only I was there!"

Most everyone's mouths were agape. Ludwig especially. How in the world had his bruder found someone who could handle his annoying self? And more importantly, how in the _fuck_ did that someone end up being _Lovino_?

Gilbert rubbed the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. "Ja, we were kind of… needy, kesese."

Lovino turned to him and dealt blow after blow to his shoulder. "Shut. The. Fuck. Up. Bastard!"

Gilbert ducked his head and covered it with his arms, smiling. "See? He loves me, kesese!"

"Right," Ludwig looked them over, and Matthew tried to make himself look as small as possible, hoping for one of the few times in his life that he would be invisible. "Then let's—"

Ludwig's eyes fell on Sadiq.

"Sadiq, have you anything to tell us?"

Sadiq knew how shy Matthew could be, but he wanted everyone to know that the Canadian was his… that and everyone had pretty much spilled so what was the harm in them doing the same?

"Evet," Sadiq said, taking Matthew's hand. The younger blond flushed as he was pulled to him. "I believe Mattie and I are the newest among the pairs. Though really it was all his fault. Who would not want to have this sweet one?"

"Sadiq," Matthew muttered, ducking his head to hide his blush and pushing his glasses up as they slipped down the bridge of his nose. He knew he should feel completely embarrassed at this, but something at the back of his mind was enjoying being shown off to the others. He had never been shown off before, well, except when Francis first met him, but that was so long ago (and kind of creepy).

Francis huffed again. "Matthieu, you could have come to me. I am very fond of sweet things." Arthur scoffed next to him, and for good reason. The Briton himself was bitter at best.

"I am exceptionally fonder, I assure you," Sadiq countered with some bite. Still holding Matthew's hand—and giving it a little squeeze to comfort him—he looked to Ludwig. "What was the purpose of all this? Have we wasted daylight revealing relationships or can it be useful to us in some way?"

Ludwig's blush was fading now. "Ja, it has a purpose. Secrets can kill. Secrets keep people apart and can be used against us. Now that we know this, we can trust each other a bit more." Everyone looked at each other, surprised that it had come to this. A few weeks together, isolated, ever in danger, and they had all ended up coming together—in more intimate ways than just fellowship.

"Let's head out."

They packed, layered, and trudged off through the snow. It was about a foot deep, but Alfred kept telling them that within days it could be three—and was promptly told to shut up. Everyone was quiet then, brooding about the weather or how much the possible breaking of the group could jeopardize everything. Where one would fall apart, another would be affected; they were all too close to remain neutral in any tense situation.

Gilbert walked behind Lovino, wishing the Italian wasn't so embarrassed to let his Prussian lover walk beside him, maybe even hold his hand like everyone else seemed to be doing. At first Gilbert took Lovino's mood as shame and it hurt… but then again, Lovino was a gigantic ball of indecipherable emotions; who really knew what he was thinking? Always brooding about something, always so high-strung and grouchy. That was his Lovino.

 _And he is mine,_ Gilbert thought with a surge of warmth. He'd had many lovers in the past, yes, but those had been only one-time fucks or just playmates. Something was different about Lovino—maybe it was Gilbert's need to be responsible for whom his best friend loved, maybe it was Lovino's mysterious personality, or perhaps he possessed some sort of attractive air about him that Gilbert had not noticed until now. Maybe it was the way Lovino called him 'bastard.'

He recalled the day, though it seemed many, many years ago, that Lovino had fallen off a truck in Milwaukee. And how he had a sudden urge to save the Italian, like the death of him would be the most devastating thing in the world. He had ignored it at first so that he could rescue Lovino, but recent events had brought the memory to the forefront of his mind. When would they be in danger again? Who's to say that the next time Lovino wouldn't be the victim?

 _I will fight for you,_ Gilbert promised him. _If only you could see how much I would do for you._ Gilbert had taken pride for never being tied down before, but now…

_I would die for you, Lovi. You are the best thing I have ever had, that's no lie… even if you are an unawesome jerk sometimes._

* * *

They never realized how hindering the snowfall was to their progress until they were ankle deep in it. Sadiq was walking on his own by now, albeit with a slight limp and at the back of the pack for his slowness. To him the snow was both a blessing and a curse; with every step, his injury was submerged in the icy coldness, numbing the ache, and with another step his shoe was further soaked through. Matthew walked beside him, watching him carefully. But there really was no need. Sadiq hadn't come this far, hadn't survived a scrape with death to have Mother Nature bring him down.

Ludwig was leading them, his coat zipped up to just beneath his nose. The wind was not as strong today as it was yesterday, but it was still present. Feliciano had wanted to walk beside him, to hold his hand, but Ludwig had told him that he would be staying behind him so that he would not be so exposed to the wind.

Things were slow with Feliciano, but that was expected and Ludwig didn't mind. He considered himself lucky that he and the Italian were in the relationship they were currently in. Everyone knew how airheaded he was, but he wasn't expecting Feliciano to notice his advances. Ludwig was annoyed that Feliciano hadn't spoken up about it before all this shit went down, but Feliciano was Feliciano, and Ludwig wouldn't want him to change just for convenience's sake.

Currently, they were at an innocent point in their relationship. Holding hands, kissing, sleeping together (though that was mostly for the warmth), and the like. Although Ludwig knew any day he could lose Feliciano and all that they had together, he was determined not to rush. Feliciano deserved at least that.

His eyes flitted to his right where the long, two-lane stretch of worn asphalt wound its way through the flat, gray landscape. Every time he looked at it the awareness became starker that there was nothing between the road and them that could hide them if someone happened to come along. He knew he should trust his own logic (the road _would_ keep them close to civilization if ever they were in dire need of sustenance), but a deep foreboding coiled in his gut like a restless snake even so.

"Ludwig?"

He didn't realize that he had not taken his eyes off the road until Feliciano said his name. He snapped out of it and looked at Feliciano.

"Feli, I thought I told you to stay behind me."

"Ve," Feliciano said tremulously. "I don't want them to get me."

Ludwig frowned. "Who, Feli?"

"The wolves."

Ludwig's brow knitted together as he peered behind him. Sure enough, past his fellow nations, situated on an icy outcrop not a half mile away, were the distinct shapes of four wolves. Three were gray. The biggest one, and the one that was studying them most closely, was black as pitch. The alpha male. He and Ludwig met eyes, and the German felt that snake in his belly move more restlessly than before. It seemed as if the wolf had made him out as the group's leader, however troublesome that may come to be. There was also a sort of warning. Ludwig couldn't pick it out, but—

"They are close."

"Was?" Ludwig whipped his head back around to see Ivan walking beside him. The sight of the Russian disturbed him. By all reasons he should not be able to move that fast or that quietly.

"The wolves," Ivan said, not taking his eyes off the ground ahead. They had just entered a ravine that had not yet filled with snow. Ludwig figured that any chance they could get to escape from the predatory gazes of the wolf pack would be well appreciated. "They are too close."

Ludwig stared at the taller man. "There is nothing we can do. They are too far away to shoot at and I would rather not waste a bullet on them besides. We are running low as it is."

"Nyet," Ivan said. Ludwig didn't like how he said it. Ivan's voice had dropped an octave, veering off from his usual childish tone. "They would never be this close to prey. Not when so many of us are healthy enough to hurt them. Not when they know how much humans can hurt."

Even though Ivan hadn't verified any sort of danger yet, Ludwig's stomach turned over. Feliciano clung to his arm, whimpering and stumbling over the rocks that were jutting out beneath the light snowfall. "Nein… you are right. I have never seen wolves act this way before."

Ivan was quiet for a moment, not looking at him. Then he said in an almost casual tone, "There are others behind us."

Ludwig felt his heart jump in his chest. Feliciano was nearly cutting off circulation to his arm with the way he was holding it. "W-what do you mean? There are more wolves?" the Italian asked, looking up at the strip of gray sky that was bordered by the river-carved rock faces many feet above them.

Only now did Ivan look at them. His eyes told of the dangers he suspected. "Men. The Organization. They have sent more. Why else would the wolves be this close if there were not men following close behind? They feel trapped, so they must remain in the middle. And since they are showing themselves without fear to us, that must mean they judge us weaker than those behind them."

Ludwig stiffened, and Feliciano felt it, felt his unease. The Italian nearly tugged his arm off.

"What do we do?"

He couldn't believe he was asking Ivan for advice, but he seemed to be the only one with enough knowledge in this situation.

"We stop."

"What?"

"We stay here for the night," Ivan said, stopping himself and shrugging his pack off and dropping it at his feet. Behind them, the sound of shoes scraping over the rocks ceased.

"You said they were close." Ludwig frowned.

"I did."

"What are you two doing standing about?" Arthur demanded from close behind them.

"Dudes, I _am not_ stopping with those wolves behind us."

"Is the Russian fucker messing with you, West?"

"Shut up before I break your face!"

"Al, don't start, please…"

"Mattie, tell them that those wolves will eat us if we stop. Tell them!"

"Oui… I don't think it would be wise to linger."

A scoff. "Wolves wouldn't dare eat me. I'm too awesome for them! Kesesese!"

"Ivan-san, Ludwig-san, I do not think that this place is—"

 _"Everyone shut the fuck up, dammit!"_ Lovino growled and everyone went silent. He looked at Ludwig. "Go on, potato bastard. Tell us what the fuck's going on."

"Ivan," Ludwig said, nodding to the Russian. It was his turn now.

Ivan looked at them all and said, "There are Organization men near. That is why the wolves are so close. This seems to be the best place to stay. The ravine is hard to see among the snow cover and we are out of the wind and other elements in here. If we are lucky, they will pass us without notice."

Yao raised an eyebrow. "And if we are not?"

Ivan's gaze fell upon him. "We will be. The wolves will warn us."

* * *

Translations:  


Aufstehen-Get up

Duìbùqǐ-I'm sorry

Balivernes-Nonsense

Evet-Yes

A Word From the Writer: Corny chapter title is corny, but I'm pressed for time so fuck it, you get the point. And so many _feelings_.Feelings are fun to write, so conflicting and juicy... ahem, so things are heating up now. People still following, yatta, yatta. Let's see how well Russia's plan works out.


	70. Only the Prologue

**Ah, this whole chapter is just one big fluffy mess. X3  
**

Warning: Lemon, TurCan, FrUK, fluff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Only the Prologue**

Sadiq was unrolling his sleeping bag and sensed someone watching him. He turned and saw Matthew staring at him.

"Is something worrying you?"

Matthew didn't answer, only looked around before crawling over to him. He pressed his lips to his ear. Sadiq shivered. "Tonight."

"Tonight…?"

"I'm ready," Matthew told him. The truth was he couldn't wait any longer. "Tonight."

Sadiq licked his lips and drew back to look the Canadian in the eyes. "Are you sure?" It had only been a couple of days since they had gotten together. It seemed too fast to him.

Matthew chewed his lip, and Sadiq frowned. "You are worried about something."

"No," Matthew lied. How could he tell Sadiq that he had bad feeling? It was such a stupid thing. It was probably nothing. He peered up at the indigo sky between the jutting rock faces. The stars were scattered like so many faraway torches. That, at least, gave him comfort.

"Tonight?" Sadiq's question brought Matthew's focus back to him again.

Matthew nodded. "Tonight." And he pecked him on the lips before retreating to tend to his own sleeping bag.

Alfred watched the exchange a yard or so away down the ravine. Ivan had found a spot on a smooth slab of rock that dipped to join with the little, pebbly stream that flowed through the cleft, and seeing his brother kiss Sadiq had reminded Alfred of something. He grabbed his pack.

"What are you looking for?" Ivan asked, giving Alfred a curious glance as he smoothed out the sleeping bag.

"Something," Alfred said vaguely, and Ivan grunted in annoyance, snatching up a can and opening it with the can opener.

Alfred found what he was looking for and got to his feet, throwing out his arms for balance as he jumped from rock to slippery rock across the chilled stream and arrived before Francis and Arthur.

Arthur looked up at him and sighed. "Alfred, I've already told you, I'm not going to tell you a happy story so you can sleep."

Alfred blushed. "That… wasn't what I came over here for." Arthur was about to ask why he was there, when Alfred said, "Francis." The Frenchman looked up just as Alfred tossed a small sack to him. He caught it.

"What is this, cher?"

Alfred smiled. "A gift. I don't need it anymore." Then, shifting his gaze to Arthur, he said. "And I'm sorry." Alfred didn't need to elaborate; both of them knew what he referring to. And before Arthur could say anything, Alfred turned around and bounded away.

Arthur stared after him for a while, feeling content, before leaning over to have a look at the small sack in Francis's hand. "What is it?"

"Uh," Francis hid the sack in his pocket. "Nothing to worry about."

Arthur frowned. "Give it here."

"Non, it is mine."

"I'll give it back. Now give it to me."

"No."

"Give it, frog."

"Non, cher, stop being nosy."

"I'm not being bloody nosy, you're being sneaky!"

"I am not!"

Arthur huffed and lunged forward, wrestling with Francis for a bit before finally snatching the sack from his pocket. He held it in his palm and chuckled.

"The aphrodisiac? Why would he give this back to you?"

Francis shrugged. "He said he didn't need it anymore. He never used it. It's still as full as when I gave it to him."

Arthur smirked. "You were going to use this on me. That's why you were trying to hide it."

Francis smirked back. "Maybe I was."

Arthur snorted and tossed the sack into Francis's pack, reminding himself to watch his food from then on, and opened the sleeping bag, motioning to it. "Get in, wanker."

* * *

Sadiq wasn't so sure about this. They were in a sheltered ravine that trapped and amplified any sound, and if someone were to wake up they would surely see them wrestling around in their sleeping bag. But Matthew was insistent. The Canadian had volunteered to take the first watch, so they had an hour. After everyone was asleep, Matthew slipped out of his clothes and into the sleeping bag where Sadiq laid unclothed as well.

"It's time," Matthew told him when he heard the last person to fall asleep—Yao—start snoring.

Sadiq looked at him through his black bandana mask, feeling like some sort of thief with it on. But a sudden apprehension gripped him, and it wasn't just for fear of someone hearing them. It was the fact that his mask was going to come off.

It had been the same with Heracles. His anxiety about it had been growing by the day ever since Matthew had expressed his desire to take it off. Before the Greek had taken the mask off, he had expected some sort of… rejection. All his life he had worn a mask. But for what reason? He knew now as he looked at Matthew who had moved on top of him, their warm skin touching. He was afraid to show himself because without his mask he was a different person. With his mask, he was the powerful and feared former empire, Turkey. But _without_ his mask…

Who was he?

No one, because he had only ever shown that part of himself to a special few.

His mind was brought back to the situation at hand. Matthew's lips were on his, begging entrance. Sadiq gladly opened up for him, welcoming the Canadian's tongue inside. The kiss seemed to last forever in Sadiq's mind, and when they finally parted they were gasping for breath.

"Sadiq…" Matthew whispered, insistent fingers tugging at the knot of the mask at the back of Sadiq's head.

Sadiq opened his mouth to respond, but his words caught in his throat. He began to get nervous, and he felt like a fool just laying there and staring with wide eyes and a tied tongue.

Matthew, on the other hand, was worried. "Sadiq?"

Sadiq finally found his voice, but it wasn't as strong as he wanted it to be. "I-I… Mattie—"

Matthew brushed a soft thumb over Sadiq's lips, silencing him. "I won't judge."

Sadiq was so shocked Matthew had found him out that he couldn't say or do anything. He just lay still, feeling Matthew's fingers tug at the bandana until he got it loose. They just stared at each other then, holding their breaths. Both their hearts were pounding and Matthew's hands trembled as they came up to slip off the mask.

And just like that, he could see Sadiq's face. All of it. Matthew stared, his breath catching and his heart fluttering like a caged bird in his chest.

 _Oh my God,_ Matthew thought. _He's beautiful._

The most beautiful man Matthew had ever seen. Why would he ever want to hide himself behind a mask?

Below him, Sadiq shifted nervously. He couldn't tell what Matthew was thinking, though he would like to take the younger nation's growing blush as a good sign. "Mattie?"

Matthew could feel his face heating up and for good reason. Sadiq had said that Matthew was beautiful, but how could he even compare…?

"Mattie?"

Sadiq's voice brought him back, and Matthew was afraid to blink or the lovely sight before him might disappear. He leaned down and kissed him again. Kissed him breathless.

"You're beautiful, Sadiq," Matthew told him, kissing a line down the man's jaw.

Sadiq's anxiety slowly faded and he smiled. "Not the Phantom?"

Matthew giggled and looked at him again, raising himself on his elbows to do so. "The farthest from him."

"Will you stay with me, though?"

"As long as you stop quoting Phantom of the Opera, yes."

Sadiq chuckled and wrapped his arms around Matthew. "All right… I guess I'm not a natural born romantic."

"You don't need to be. Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately? _Ever_? You're gorgeous, Sadiq. I suppose I should be lucky that you never took off your mask or surely I would have never had a chance amid all the other nations who would want your attention."

Sadiq was blushing—hardly anyone could do that to him. Sadiq stroked his lover's hair. Despite their traveling, it smelled of fresh air and pine. "Yok, I wouldn't have cared about anyone else. I would have wanted you."

"No," Matthew said somberly. "You would never have noticed me. Just like everyone else."

Sadiq lifted Matthew's head from his shoulder with both hands on his soft, rosy cheeks so that he could look at him, into those sweet indigo eyes. "I would have found you."

"Why didn't you?" Matthew's question was barely a whisper. There were tears in his eyes. It was hard to think that because of the Uprising—and only that—he began to be noticed. It was hard for him to be grateful for the Uprising for that purpose. It wasn't right.

Sadiq sighed and pressed their foreheads together. "You have heard of the _One Thousand and One Nights_?"

"Yes."

"Do you know the reason why they exist?"

Matthew shook his head.

"Many many years ago, a Persian king by the name of Shahryar, caught his wife along with his brother's wife being unfaithful. Enraged, he executed his wife and remarried. But the betrayal haunted him and he decided that all women were this way. In his paranoia, he took a nearly endless stream of young brides, marrying them only to execute them the next morning." Sadiq's eyes lit up with the storytelling, and Matthew very much felt like a child again, sitting on Francis's lap as he read to him… though at the moment he was currently naked and lying on top of another man. Still, the situation was somewhat the same.

"Soon his adviser informed him that there were no more eligible women left for him to marry, but then the adviser's daughter, Scheherazade, offered herself as the next bride.

"She and the king married, but she knew that she had little time before the king's temper flared and she would be gone from the world. A clever woman, she told the king the night, just after their wedding, that she was going to tell him a story. Intrigued, the king listened and she told. By the time the sun came up, the king was entranced with the tale, but Scheherazade would stop and say 'If you wish to hear the rest, you must wait until tonight.'

"And so the king waited, and Scheherazade lived on, weaving tales of genies, and the undead, and magic, adventure, gore, erotica. For one thousand and one nights she did this, and by the end of her tales, which numbered in the hundreds, the king had fallen in love with her and decided to spare her life." Sadiq's eyes took on a warmth now, making his handsome face glow all the brighter. "For most of my life I thought everyone feared me, and because of this I distrusted them. Some would try to get close to me for the wealth. Some for the power. But I pushed them away. I found you after so many years of searching. You, Mattie, you have gotten close to me in a way I never knew. Scheherazade got closer to the king by tapping into his emotions through storytelling. But you got through to me by staying by my side and wanting nothing from me but for me to do the same. And I gladly will." He paused, then went on, "Perhaps when our one thousand and one nights are over, we will be able to be happily in love. Until then, our story will continue and we will have to leave it to Fate to decide if it is a happy ending or a sad one."

"Scheherazade made her own stories, right?" Matthew said, his voice sweet yet firm. "We can make our own. These are _our_ lives, and we deserve the right to make it how we wish. We can do _something_."

Sadiq took Matthew's hands in his. "Yes," he said. "We can."

Their lips met again and everything happened very fast. Hands roamed, Matthew spread his legs, saliva-slicked fingers prodded at his entrance. He was busy making love to Sadiq's neck, riddling it with bites and licks and kisses. The Turk, meanwhile, penetrated him with his finger. Matthew gasped and drew back to look at Sadiq again. He couldn't believe that this beautiful man wanted him and only him. It was too good to be true.

He kissed Sadiq's lips and the man pushed his finger further in. Matthew kissed Sadiq's nose, his cheeks, his jaw, his eyes, his brow. All of him was perfect, and Matthew wanted to appreciate every bit of him. Matthew felt like they were rushing through this, but he wanted Sadiq so badly. It seemed right, it seemed like it had to happen _now_.

The intensity of the situation took Matthew's breath away. Another finger was worked into him, scissoring, stretching. Matthew bit his lip to keep in a pained cry, and Sadiq's hand snaked down between their bodies to stroke the Canadian's swelling cock.

"Oh, Sadiq~" Matthew moaned softly, burying his face in the Turk's neck. Sadiq continued to stretch him, inserting another finger. This time, the pain was but little when compared to the pleasure. When the fingers began thrusting, it was all Matthew could do to keep in groans.

Sadiq had one hand stretched beneath Matthew, stroking his cock, the other wrapped around his backside, thrusting his fingers. He pushed deep, searching for that one spot. When Matthew gasped and rolled his hips into the fingers penetrating him, Sadiq knew he had found it. He picked up his pace, being sure to strike the little bundle of nerves every time.

Within minutes, Matthew was shivering with barely contained arousal. He was practically drooling. "Sadiq," he whined, lips brushing his lover's neck. "Please."

Sadiq took his fingers from Matthew's ass, lifting his head to kiss him again. After, he turned them over so that Matthew lay below him. He loved the startled look Matthew gave him, how he looked up at him with wide eyes. He was so cute, really, it should be illegal.

Sadiq kissed him again, lips dipping down to ravage Matthew's neck. The Canadian squirmed beneath him, mewling, clinging, gasping. Sadiq moved lower, sucking at Matthew's collarbone, running a tongue around a pink areola, slowly going inward until he was nibbling on the nipple. Matthew's nails dug into Sadiq's shoulders and he rolled his hips until he could feel Sadiq's hardness against his own.

"Sadiq, I can't…" Matthew panted, too sensitive from months of going without to last, and Sadiq immediately pulled back from him. Matthew looked up at him as Sadiq examined his body, and a deep blush found its way to his cheeks. To have such an attractive man looking at him was…

Well, it was incredibly hot.

Sadiq pulled his eyes from Matthew—though it was certainly hard—to look around the ravine. No one was awake. Good.

He looked back down at Matthew, his sweet lover. Matthew watched him with those wide, innocent eyes. Sadiq hooked his hands behind Matthew's knees and lifted up, pushed apart. He moved up until his cock was settled in the cleft of Matthew's ass.

"Mattie," Sadiq said, lining himself up and pushing in.

He watched Matthew's face for any sign of discomfort, but there was none. Only pleasure. He slid until he was nestled all the way inside.

Matthew was finally full. It had seemed like years since he had felt this way. He looked up at Sadiq, eyes hooded and pleading. Sadiq caught the message and pulled out, slowly pushing back in. They both stifled groans.

Matthew was tight. It was hard for Sadiq to keep from going as fast and hard as he could. Below him, Matthew began to roll his hips upward, matching his thrusts. He pushed for his prostate, and he found it surprisingly quickly.

Sadiq was thick, and Matthew would be lying if he said that the penetration didn't hurt a little, but that pain seemed so small compared to the pleasure he was receiving. He couldn't stop looking at Sadiq as the man moved in and out of him. It was almost surreal.

Sadiq began to go deeper, faster. He took up Matthew's cock and pumped it in time to his thrusts, still not believing how big the Canadian was. Maybe later he could be on the receiving end… but for now he enjoyed the way Matthew squirmed and moaned beneath him.

When Sadiq struck Matthew's sweet spot, the Canadian had to bite down on his hand to keep his voice in check. Sadiq grabbed his wrist and brought it down so he could capture his lover's lips.

Sadiq was pulling back, but Matthew wrapped his arms around the Turk and held him close. Their foreheads tipped together, heavy breaths mingling, eyes locked. "Sadiq," Matthew moaned, lifting his hips into him. "Oh, Sadiq~"

He threw his head back, Sadiq's lips brushing his throat as he came between them. The orgasm was strong and lengthy, perpetuated by Sadiq's constant thrusts against his prostate. He tightened around Sadiq, clamping around the man's cock almost desperately.

Sadiq nibbled his lover's neck. "Mm, Mattie," Not long after, he filled Matthew.

Sadiq collapsed next to him, pulling Matthew close and kissing him again. Matthew was exhausted; after the days of walking and anxiety, the sex laid heavy on his eyes. They were silent for a few minutes, catching their breaths and staring up at the stars.

"You know," Sadiq began mischievously. "I've been wanting to do that since I saw you jerking off in the woods."

Matthew stiffened, flushed from ears to neck. "W-what? You saw that?"

Sadiq smiled. "Yeah, but don't be embarrassed—"

"How could I not be?" Matthew squeaked, moving further down into the sleeping bag. "Ah, jeez…"

"You were very cute," Sadiq assured him and kissed him again.

Matthew smiled and yawned, snuggling closer. The chill was getting to him, and he was grateful for Sadiq's warmth. Across the ravine, Gilbert was snoring and Alfred was having an incomprehensible conversation with some imaginary person in his sleep.

"Sadiq?"

"Evet, sweet?"

"Tell me a story."

Sadiq thought for a moment. _Let's start at the beginning._

"There was a fisherman and he was very old and poor. Each day he cast out his net four times and only that. One day, he cast his net and caught a dead donkey. The second time he netted a pitcher of dirt. On the third try, he caught shards of pottery and glass in his net. On the fourth and last try, he cast his net while speaking the name of God. This time he pulled in an ornate copper jar with the seal of Solomon on it. Naturally, he was excited, since he could sell the jar for a high price."

_This is it, the beginning of our story._

"Curious about what was inside it, the fisherman removed the cap with his knife. There was a plume of smoke and a genie appeared. The frightened fisherman told the genie that Solomon had been dead for a while and that cheered him. The genie then said that, in freeing him, he would grant the fisherman his choice of how he died (1)."

_The genie was tricked. It's my choice. I can trick the genie._

The moon was high in the sky when they had both fallen asleep but the story only half finished.

* * *

Translations:

Yok-No

References:

1--"The Fisherman and the Jinni" from _One Thousand and One Nights._

A Word From the Writer: Aw, our little Canada finally got laid! And you know Turkey is pure sex beneath that mask. Just one look and you're boning it all day. Then ya got the cute little Arabian Nights story thing. This is possibly one of the cutest things I've ever written, ya'll, and that's saying something since I normally take an interest in rough pr0n. I dunno, it just seems more fun to write.

Anyway... don't let this scene fool you. The next chapter is the beginning of the chaos.


	71. The Sign in the Silence

**Prepare for things to go downhill real quick. Just imagine the biggest fucking possible snowball... yeah.  
**

Warning: Angst, paranoia, mention of Americest, TurCan, RusAme, and FrUK, a dangerous situation, weapons, (slight) mention of drug use (do I even need to warn against that now? LOL).

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**The Sign in the Silence**

Alfred rolled over in the sleeping bag, his back screaming as he moved on the uncomfortable rock. He groaned; the stone was ice cold and it was seeping through the material. Blindly, he groped around for Ivan, his hands coming up empty. He opened his eyes.

And saw Ivan standing in only his underwear, looking up at the sky.

Alfred thought he was still dreaming, but the pain in his back reminded him that he was indeed awake. _Wide_ awake now with the strange sight before him. "Uh… Vanya, are you… okay?" _Damn, vodka does some weird shit…_

Ivan didn't look down at him, just kept staring.

"Vanya?" Alfred said again, louder. "What the hell are you doing standing in your underwear? It's fucking freezing… Have you been snorting something? Vanya, we can talk about this. I remember Artie giving me this lecture. Drugs are _bad_ … but they weren't in the seventies!" He laughed a little then he frowned. "Vanya?"

Ivan finally looked down at him, and when he did Alfred didn't like the expression he wore. "The wolves are not howling."

Alfred blinked. "What?"

"The wolves…" Ivan trailed off and crouched down. He began to pull the sleeping bag out from under Alfred.

Alfred huffed. "Hey, Vanya, wanna clarify just what the hell is going on?" He dug his heels firmly into the sleeping bag as Ivan continued to pull it. "Ivan, goddammit, tell me what's wrong."

Ivan looked at him, his eyes wide. "Something's wrong. We must move."

Alfred knew the Russian wasn't joking. He had never seen Ivan this uneasy before, and it scared the shit out of him. "Get some clothes on. I'll wake the others."

Alfred shimmied into some pants, pulled his sweater over his head, and shrugged on his winter jacket. Ivan rolled up their sleeping bag within minutes and was fully dressed in less. Alfred went to Arthur first, kneeling down next to him and shaking his shoulder.

"Artie, wake up."

"Mmf?" Arthur turned over and opened his eyes, immediately blushing. He had been cuddled up against Francis, nose in his neck and arm around him. He snatched his arm back and cleared his throat. "This had better be important, Alfred," he grumbled irritably. His hands were still burning like hell, but he wouldn't let it show. They always hurt like a bitch when he woke up.

"Ivan says there's something wrong."

"What is it?"

"I dunno," Alfred admitted, and Arthur glared. "I'm not joking! He looked scared. He's gone all pale… he said the wolves aren't howling."

"The wolves?" Francis was awake, staring at him. He looked as if he hadn't just been sleeping, his eyes wide. He recalled the wolves that prowled the Paris streets so many years ago. They had always communicated to each other—except when hunting. They would have to be silent in order not to be noticed. But Francis was pretty sure that four wolves wouldn't dare take them on. They were trying to hide from something. Something much stronger than them…

He knew what it was, and he quickly wriggled out of his sleeping bag. Arthur watched him in bewilderment. "Why are you so worried by a pack of flea-bitten dogs?"

"I am not afraid of them," Francis said, though it was only half truth. "I'm afraid of what they are afraid of."

Arthur remembered Ivan's explanation of the wolves' presence the other day and understood. Within moments he had dressed himself and was waking the others around him.

When Alfred got to Matthew, he frowned and nudged him with the toe of his shoe. Matthew mumbled before opening his eyes. He was bare-chested, Sadiq hugging him securely from behind. The Turk was wearing his bandana mask. "Al…?"

"You were supposed to be on watch," Alfred accused. "You fell asleep." _Not before fucking, though, I see,_ Alfred mused, though he held back from saying the words. He knew that perpetual flush on Matthew's cheeks—he had seen it many times after their own lovemaking.

Matthew blushed deeper and his eyes widened. "Oh, Al, I'm so sorry—"

"Save it," Alfred said, his voice colder than he intended. "Get up. There's trouble."

Sadiq was roused by their voices and he flinched when he saw Alfred standing over him, blocking out the light of the moon and casting a large shadow. "Alfred?"

"I'll explain," Matthew told him. "Sadiq, you're going to have to get up."

Alfred left before he could hear the questions fly from the Turk's mouth. For some reason he was feeling uptight; threatened. He knew he shouldn't feel that way… he and Matthew were no longer together in a sexual way, that's why he had Ivan. And as much as he loved Ivan, he couldn't help feeling jealous of a man encroaching on what used to be his territory—despite he and Matthew having a strictly open relationship.

Lovino was being a grouch as usual and Feliciano was whimpering, huddling beside Ludwig for warmth and protection. Kiku stood beside Yao, both of them appearing calm despite the storm of apprehension brewing inside them. Gilbert was not being loud for once.

"Ivan," Yao spoke up. He knew something was coming; something was off. Just the air, it felt… _wrong._ "Why did you wake us?"

Ivan looked over them all, feeling incredibly guilty. He had thought that this was a safe place to settle for the night. He had suggested that they stay here. Now their lives were resting on his shoulders. "The Organization men are near. The wolves have gone away to hide. They outnumber the pack. They will not be so easy to outrun as the last group of men."

Immediately Feliciano burst into tears.

Arthur ignored him and Ludwig's attempts to soothe him, turning to Ivan. "Where will we go? There is nothing but flat land out there. No fields of grass to hide in this time. And they'll surely have weapons. They will shoot us down like a flock of sparrows taking flight."

Feliciano cried harder. "Way to be sensitive, asshole," Lovino grumbled quietly, but Arthur ignored him as well, eyes fixed on Ivan, almost accusing.

What could Ivan tell them? That he was confronting the only situation he was unable to solve and that the decision he made could cost all their lives? He took a deep breath, his nerves unraveling like never before, trying to keep himself composed. But it felt like an elephant was sitting on his chest.

He wet his lips and said, "We cannot stay here. If they are close enough for the wolves to flee, then they are close enough to see this ravine."

 _That doesn't answer my question,_ Arthur mused, though he didn't want to waste time by demeaning Ivan… or risking his well-being. "So, we run?"

Ivan swallowed. "Da." He paused for a moment, trying to gather his thoughts and expel the panic from his system; it was the last thing he needed right now. "We are going to form a protective wall… I will stay behind the group to shoot at the rebels. But I cannot be alone." He felt it was his responsibility, after all.

Alfred looked up at him determinedly. "I'm game."

Ivan frowned. "Nyet, you will run and _only_ that." He knew how reckless Alfred could be. Before he could object, Ivan looked at the Prussian. "Gilbert?"

The albino, his skin and hair glowing under the moonlight, smiled. "You know I will."

"I'll go," Ludwig said.

Ivan shook his head. "Nyet, you will have to lead the group to a place where we will be safe."

"I know the terrain as much as you do, Ivan. There is no guarantee that I will succeed."

"Then keep Feliciano calm," Ivan told him, looking out on them all again. "Anyone else?"

"Me," Kiku said, though it was obvious that Yao disapproved. But the Chinaman didn't say anything, only frowned in concern.

"I'll be going as well," Arthur volunteered.

"Non, absolutely not," Francis snapped.

Arthur glared. " _I am going_ ," he bit back, determined.

"No, not unless I go with you."

"You will not. I won't be there to watch over Matthew and make sure Alfred doesn't do anything stupid. That will be your job."

There was a bit of silence in which no one spoke. Ivan nodded. "All right, then. Arthur, Kiku, Gilbert, and I will be at the back of the group taking aim at the men. The rest of you will be running, hopefully to a place of refuge. If you cannot find a place, keep running. If we stop, we die."

Feliciano was still sniffling and everyone was trembling or on edge of it while they were awaiting Ivan's signal to climb out of the mouth of the ravine. They had all scrambled to the exit, packing together, shoulder to shoulder, two by two as only the small space allowed, and waited. Ivan was at the head of the group, his shooters lined up behind him. They would all file out first and make a barrier between the men and the rest of the group so that the others could get out and flee.

At the back of the group, Sadiq worried. He looked at Matthew, his arm slung over his shoulders.

"You don't need to help me," he whispered.

Matthew frowned. "You can't run yet, and I'm not going to let you fall behind."

"I'll slow you down."

"Then you will. I don't care."

"I do," Sadiq grumbled.

They were silent for a moment before Matthew felt a strong urge. He blinked through the dark at Sadiq. "Sadiq… I-I love you." He chewed his lip as Sadiq's eyes widened in his mask and was silent. He looked ahead almost myopically, and Matthew felt his heart sink.

 _How stupid can I be? Why did I do that?_ Matthew thought somberly.

Ivan scanned the land above with sharp eyes. The moon was half full, and he was grateful; he could see for a good few miles behind them and there was nothing blocking his view. The wolves, as he suspected, were gone. Yet, he knew they were close by even though he could not see them… waiting for the bodies to start falling.

The thought unsettled him and he pushed it away. He firmly told himself it _was not_ going to be Alfred's body the wolves would be feasting on as the men finally came into sight and range.

Meanwhile, Sadiq was wondering over what Matthew had said. Everything seemed to be moving so fast, and he didn't know if their relationship was far enough along for the words to be completely true. But he saw the look on Matthew's face, and he felt so guilty about not saying anything back. The last thing he wanted to do before running for his life was to break Matthew's heart. So he looked at Matthew and drew breath, and Matthew looked eagerly at him, waiting, barely breathing himself. And then—

"Let's go," Ivan muttered, and Sadiq shut his mouth again as the Russian led the way out into a sea of glowing white snow.

At first sight, Ivan judged there were around fifteen men, but then they shouted in surprise and raised their weapons and everything was a blur. Ivan didn't look back to make sure the rest of the group was safe or that the barrier he had described had been properly formed. He could not afford to.

He fired only four rounds before he had to risk reaching inside his coat to grab another magazine and lock it. He had brought only so many: about six in all and two of those were seventy-five-round drums. But he was saving those for the capital. Now he had finished off all of his ammo except for his two forty-round cartridges, one of which he was now locking. If this turned out to be a pursuit that lasted days, he knew he was in trouble.

Ahead of him, about two-hundred yards away, the men took aim and fired. Luckily it appeared as if most of the group had short range weapons. But there was one particular man who had already fired two rounds dangerously close to Ivan. He could hear the bullets slicing through the air with a whistle inches from his person.

He nearly dropped his magazine when his ears rang with the sound of a rapid succession of bullets firing beside him. He spared a glance and Arthur nodded back to him, the submachine gun in his hand.

He had borrowed the weapon from Francis, who had stolen it and some cartridges for it at the Organization mens' camp before the fire. Of course Francis was nervous letting him go, but Arthur bloody well knew how to shoot and he'd be damned if he let a frog tell him he was poor at it even if said frog was his lover. So he covered Ivan while he reloaded. Everyone else who was to form the barrier stood a little ways behind them as their own weapons did not have the range that Arthur's and Ivan's had.

While their guns could fire at a moderate range, their accuracy was poor. Every bullet wasted was another death or injury that could be prevented later. And even though they knew they should not be wasting ammo, they were hesitant to turn and run, for that meant that the one man that held what should be an illegal M4—who had a surprisingly accurate long-range shot—might just down one of them on the way, and there would be no coming back for them, there was no time to. Every time the man fired close to Ivan, the bullet wound in his side ached in remembrance.

Yet when they both no longer heard feet scrambling out of the ravine and the crunching of snow under worn soles, they knew they must flee. Beside Arthur, Kiku shouted over the gunfire that they must go. By then Arthur's hands were trembling and he was half deaf from the rounds. He was reluctant, and Ivan glanced at him, the same apprehension in his eyes. They had to leave.

So Arthur lowered his gun and turned quickly on his heel. As he sped away from the site, he saw only Kiku and Gilbert following him. And he could only hope that Ivan would follow, but, thankfully, no one seemed to be shooting at him.

He looked up ahead, watching the shadowy bodies of the other group members a little ways off move up and down in flight. He scanned his eyes over each one, making out certain features that told him where everyone was. Then he noticed something that made his heart leap into his throat and he went over them again, and again, and again.

_Fucking yank, what did I tell you?_

* * *

Ivan knew Arthur had left him, but he would give him the best chance by staying behind for a while so that Arthur could get well out of range. His time to leave was close, and his heart started up a frantic tattoo in his chest that made him dizzy.

And then someone was standing next to him, firing off round after round. He looked over and saw Alfred, and something inside him urged him to strangle the stubborn man.

Alfred saw his look and ignored it, instead shouting, "Together!"

Ivan blinked at first, but then understood. They fired their last shots and, together, they turned and ran.

Ivan didn't look back, although he knew well enough that the men were pursuing them. He glared at Alfred as he ran, furious.

"I told you to stay with the rest of the group!"

"I wasn't gonna leave you, you asshole!" Alfred shouted back.

"Why do you never listen to me?"

"I don't listen to anyone, dude, you should know!"

Ivan huffed and was about to tell Alfred to run faster and catch up to Arthur and the rest who were ten yards or so ahead of them, when he heard the growing sound of baying behind them. He and Alfred exchanged panicked looks.

They may have lost the wolves, but now dogs were after them.

* * *

Ludwig was scoping out for possible places to hide whilst trying to calm Feliciano. The Italian was sobbing and shaking by now, and it was getting all the worse when Ludwig couldn't find a safe place to stay. The anxiety was not only wearing on Feliciano and himself but was gradually spreading to everyone else as well. Yao was pale and looked as lost as when his country fell to foreign imperialism. It was certainly a sight that made Ludwig uneasy; despite his faults, Yao was still the oldest of them all and supposedly the wisest. Now _he_ didn't even know what to do. And he seemed to be going a bit off the deep end, muttering Kiku's name in an endless string under his breath and glancing back occasionally to see if the nation was okay.

Lovino was beside him the instant they stopped. "We need to fucking _run_ , potato head, not stand here and wait to be shot!"

Ludwig lost his temper then. It hardly ever happened, but he was currently stressed out the ass and he needed to vent a bit. "What do you want me to do, huh? Everything is flat! If you think you can find a place faster, then why don't _you_ lead the group?"

Lovino's eyes widened, but his face still turned tomato-red with anger. "This is so _fucking_ —"

"A river!" Francis yelled from behind. He was running up to them from helping Matthew move Sadiq along. By now he had long forgotten about Alfred, and just assumed that he was a little behind. "Up ahead. And they have hounds!"

Ludwig's heart got to pounding again and Feliciano clung to his arm. "No, Luddy, no, I don't want to swim in the river. It will be so cold!"

"Ja, it will." Ludwig swallowed and looked in the direction of the river, then back at Feliciano. "But we have to do it."

The river was wide and fast-flowing. As they neared it, the sound it made grew to a low roar. Even though the water wasn't as high as in the spring or summer—when the snows melted—they were still flowing pretty hard. Ludwig was dismayed to see that the ice had not managed to calm the river yet, but there were a few good chunks of it rushing with the water. He bit his lip as he examined it further, eyes skimming over the faces of many rocks, most smoothed by the currents but still bone-crushingly hard. Lovino was beside him.

"You're crazy. Fucking _insane_."

"Do you have any other suggestions?"

He was silent then.

Ludwig took a deep breath and began, "Let's g—"

"Wait!" Yao shouted, his voice higher and more frantic than any of them had ever heard. "What about the rest? What about Kiku? We wait. If we all cross separated, we won't be able to help each other."

Ludwig looked behind them. Kiku and the rest were still a good two-hundred yards away and two other shadowy shapes that Ludwig couldn't make out but hoped to be part of their group were farther still. And behind _them_ were the men, their voices rising as they neared, and dark shapes were flitting alongside them, eventually sprinting their way across the snow and directly for the two stragglers. Those must be the hounds.

He looked back at Yao. "No time. They'll catch up." Then he looked back down at the icy cold water and was reminded of their heavy packs, laden with provisions, and their own heavy winter clothes. But they could not afford to lose any of it; they would die without it.

He turned to them. "Right, listen to me and do what I say as fast as you possibly can. Empty your packs of everything that could be damaged by the water and stuff everything in your sleeping bag to put back inside. If there is anything important that is small, put it in a small bag or whatever you can find that will keep the water from it. Then put them back in. I think our packs will float, so try to hold onto them, but if it sinks let it go; don't let it pull you down with it, your life is more valuable. Quickly, everyone!"

The plan was crazy, but they did as they were told. They were finished within seconds, mostly due to the fact that their adrenaline was pumping as fast as the river was, running through their veins like ice.

The rest of the group was fifty yards away and closing, but Ludwig wasn't willing to waste anymore time waiting for them. So he said, "Everyone stick with a partner in case you have trouble. Feliciano, you hold onto me, okay? Hold onto me and don't let go. Do you understand?" When Feliciano didn't answer, only cried, Ludwig said more firmly, "Answer me."

"S-s-si," Feliciano sniffed, a pitiful mess of tears and snot.

"Someone will have to stay behind to pass my orders onto the others," Ludwig said.

"I will stay," Yao volunteered immediately, eager to see Kiku.

Ludwig nodded. "Very well." He couldn't keep the grimness out of his tone, the finality. One way or another, he knew someone was going to die tonight. But he knew one thing…

He tightened his grip around Feliciano's wrist, almost bruisingly so.

"I won't let go," he promised.

He led Feliciano to the edge of the water, both carrying their packs in one hand, and plunged in.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Wow, that whole "hide in the ravine and hope they pass us" plan kinda backfired. Russia's gonna be feeling that one for a while, I can tell ya. Especially since someone is gonna die during this. Yes, you heard me, we have come to the point of a character death. Or two character deaths. You'll see what I mean in the next chappie. So go get some feels!


	72. Breadth

**Rivers are fucking BEASTS.  
**

Warning: Angst, weapons, a dangerous situation, and (unfortunately) a character death.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Breadth**

"Oh my God."

Arthur, Kiku, and Gilbert ran the last few yards to the edge of the rushing river, Yao greeting them by running up and wrapping his arms around Kiku.

"You are so stupid, yīnghuā, you do not even have a gun!" he ranted.

"What the fuck's going on?" Gilbert demanded, watching his brother fight his way against the current of the river.

Yao let go of Kiku, who was red-faced with embarrassment, and turned to them. He told them everything that Ludwig told them all to do, and they were left staring and speechless.

"Are you mad?" Arthur snapped in disbelief. "You're all mental, I swear. But if that's what we're going to have to be to live then, goddammit, I will be bloody _out of my head._ " And he shrugged off his pack.

It took them a bit longer than had the others before them to get everything ready. When he was finished, Arthur looked back and saw Ivan and Alfred still running toward them, and as much as he wanted to wait for Alfred—mostly so he could wring his neck for going back—it would not do to leave Gilbert without a partner, no matter how irksome the Prussian was to handle.

So everyone took their packs, and Yao and Kiku led the way.

When it was Arthur's turn to get into the water, his legs seemed to lock up in protest merely at the feel of the icy spray in his face. But with a nudge from Gilbert—well, more of a shove—he was sent stumbling into the river.

The water was like a million needles stabbing into his flesh over and over. The cold knocked the breath out of him as well as a large wave as it crashed into his chest, covering his face with the freezing water.

He was so shocked about everything that he had forgotten about Gilbert. When he finally gathered his senses he had mind to look around for him and saw him bobbing just a foot or so away. The Prussian gave him a nod to tell him he was all right, though he looked, if possible, even paler than his usual self.

Arthur then began his fight through the current. He had to cut straight through, which meant he would have to endure the torrent rushing down directly. He was not even a quarter of the way across when a wave crashed over him, soaking him to the bone. He spluttered and held onto his pack for dear life, but he could not keep himself from being plunged under the paralyzing water over and over again. With every wave he was pushed underwater.

Ahead of him, Ludwig was practically dragging Feliciano through the water, as the Italian seemed to have locked up in shock. Ludwig was shouting at him to move his legs, to do anything to help his struggle, but Feliciano was so cold and scared that he could do nothing but hold onto Ludwig and his pack, though that just may be from his fingers being frozen around them.

Yao and Kiku were both fighting the current with determination, but it was clear that they were struggling. Every now and then, Kiku, being the smallest of all of them, was nearly swept away by a wave and more than once was completely bowled over. But every time he disappeared, he reappeared again, paddling away stronger than before. Resilient as he was, however, Arthur still feared for him.

Arthur was a third of the way across before he began to shiver uncontrollably and his limbs stiffened. He longed to curl up into a ball and give up, just let the river take him where it willed, but he refused to stop. Alfred was behind him, and he didn't want him to see his brother swept away.

So he went on, though, he was weakening considerably. He didn't realize how much fatigue was claiming him until he was pushed under again and, this time, was unable to find the surface for some time.

When he finally did pop up, he opened his mouth to suck in air—only to get a mouthful of water and be pushed under again. He tumbled a few times over, knocking his leg on a rock, the pain screaming through every part of his body. Then he finally clawed his way back up and emerged, coughing and choking. He only managed to get a little air, though, before another wave stole over him and he went down.

Why had he ever consented to this? Where was Gilbert? Had he left him? He should have known he wouldn't make it across—

He couldn't swim.

Even though he'd known it for all his life, just the thought at this point in time was enough for him to go into a panic. He had braved bullets and blades and storms and demons and wars. To hell with drowning.

But try as he might, he couldn't find his way. It was night, and the water was so dark despite the moonlight slicing through it—but there was so much tumult and he was turned around so many times, that he scarcely knew if he had been carried a mile downriver.

It was just like his dream—the one that Agramon had forced upon him—about falling off the cliffs of Dover. He had plunged into the icy water and his dead first mate had tried to pull him down further. No moment had ever been greater that he felt those ghost fingers curling around his ankle since the dream than right now.

And indeed he could feel them pulling him down. His burned hands were no longer blazing with heat, but were numb, and he could feel his limbs starting to go numb as well. Soon he would be akin to a spider that had died, its limbs all shriveled inward. As much as the thought frightened him, he realized that he could no longer move his limbs, and then that he could no longer breathe.

And then he was being pulled by the ghosts of his past down into the depths in which he was supposed to have died long before.

 _Oaths are nothing,_ he thought as he was carried away. _Humanity is too corrupt to take oaths._

_It always is._

* * *

By the time they reached the river, the hounds were barely fifty yards away and closing fast. Alfred dropped his pack, heart racing, lungs aching, looking at Ivan in shock.

"This is so fucking crazy."

Ivan snatched up his wrist and tugged him toward the water. "No it isn't. Not if it means that we live."

Ivan's heart was already pounding (actually _moving_ of its own accord like it hadn't in years), but it practically leapt into his throat when Alfred stopped and he couldn't get him to move. He wanted to scream at him, to pick him up and toss the idiot into the water for all his stubbornness.

"Wait," Alfred told him worriedly. "Our packs. They're not waterproof."

Ivan gave a disbelieving snort. "You are more important than your pack. Who cares?" But Ivan wasn't about to wait for a reply. "Now get the hell in the water!" And he practically swung Alfred in, the American stumbling and falling face-first into the current, but the water buoyed him. He was sopping wet and none too happy about being tossed into an icy river, but Ivan could care less about that now. At least he was safe.

The water hit him like a solid wall of ice. For a moment, he felt paralyzed, frozen. He had never felt anything so cold before in his life, he was sure. And then his limbs unlocked and he was able to swim, however much he wanted to crawl back out of the water. He was reminded of Ivan and he looked behind, seeing the Russian plunge into the river, holding onto his pack as the current moved his large body every which way as if he was no more than a leaf on the wind.

As turbulent as the river was, however, Alfred wasn't worried about swimming; he was very good at that, better than most. But what he _was_ worried about was freezing to death. From the shore, the river looked to be no farther across than sixty yards, but in the water the opposite bank seemed miles away. Waves were pouring down from further up the river, crashing over his head and plunging him under for a few breathtaking seconds and dousing him with a new sheet of pure chill. But despite how much he was tossed around, he managed to keep his course well enough, determined to make it across (because, really, how lame would it be to let a river kill him compared to everything else he'd faced?), his pack leading the way, bobbing in waters lit to glowing by the ghostly half moon.

The frigid water did not bother Ivan and neither did the force of it against him. It as Alfred that worried him most, and every time a wave washed over him and he disappeared from the surface, his heart would stop. But there was one thing the water didn't numb, and that was the screaming pain in his side. His bullet wound was being flooded with icy water, and it stung like all hell. Every stroke, every time he stretched the muscles around the injury, it throbbed like a knife to the side.

Alfred came up for air again, trying his best to ignore the cold, but how could you ignore something that seized every nerve in your body and made them flip the fuck out? Alfred tried to focus on the far shore, giving himself encouragement, telling himself that it would only be a little longer until he reached it, that he was getting closer with every stroke.

And then his eyes found other bodies bobbing on the waves. He squinted, trying to make out who was who, but just as the moonlight was striking them best, another wave swallowed them and Alfred didn't find them again for a good minute. But, finally, he managed to identify Arthur, the closest to him. That should have made him feel better, but the fact that Arthur was so far behind those he had entered the water with was enough to get Alfred's already rapid pulse absolutely racing. There was something wrong with Arthur, he found, as he continued to study him, determined not to lose sight of him in the roiling swells.

And then he knew: Arthur was drowning. The flailing of Arthur's arms and the way he kept going under was so obvious that Alfred cursed himself for not seeing it sooner. So, bracing, he began to cut a strong line through the current. It had been three times he had almost lost Arthur. One to a bullet. Another to fire. And yet another to a possession. He'd be damned if he was going to lose him _this_ time. A thought crossed his mind just how rotten Arthur's luck seemed to be of late, but he quickly cast it aside. He had more pressing matters to tend to.

 _You say I'm such a child,_ Alfred thought as he cut through the water. _But you keep getting yourself into shit you can't handle._

* * *

Arthur gave up.

He was dying. That was it. Cats had nine lives and it seemed that Arthur had four. This was his last, and, however frustrating it was for him, he had no choice but to accept it. His body had already given up the fight against the current and he let it drag him wherever it bid.

 _I'm sorry,_ Arthur said to the faces brought to forefront of his mind. Matthew. Francis. Alfred.

_I can't do it._

Then thoughts of Northern Ireland, Wales, and Scotland gripped him. _I'm coming._ But he knew it was no use. His possession of magic prevented him from ever going to a place so peaceful. He had sold his soul, as Agramon had so kindly reminded him. He was going straight to Hell and would never see his brothers, his lover, or his mother again.

And then he blacked out with that one thought in his head, feeling nothing anymore.

* * *

Alfred was a few feet away from Arthur by now and saw his head go down for the last time.

"Artie!" he croaked, his throat raw from swallowing so much frigid water, and he filled his lungs before plunging down after him.

The Briton's body was listless as it tumbled through the water, but Alfred pursued it all the same. If he still had a breath of life in him, Alfred would do anything he could to get him to shore and save him. If he was already gone… well then, a river was no proper grave for the man.

And so he chased after him, never once veering off course for anything. Rocks began appearing on the riverbed, but he didn't bother to avoid those; he let them give him a sound beating as he swept past, and he had no time to care about the bruising. He was _so close_. That's what he thought every time his hand was within inches of grabbing some part of Arthur when a wave knocked him away. His lungs were aching, seeming to be shriveling up in his chest, but he refused to break the surface to breathe. If he did that, he would lose Arthur and never find him again.

And then Arthur was pushed up against a rock, stuck for a moment, and Alfred reached for him, snatching him up by the arm and fighting his way up. His whole body was feeling weak. The cold didn't matter anymore; he could barely feel it. But air _did_ matter, and he could feel his brain practically shutting down the closer he got to the surface and he couldn't keep a coherent thought in his head.

When he finally did break the surface, he almost forgot to breathe. He immediately gulped down lungfuls of air and bobbed there for a second, helpless to the river's jostling, as he tried to regain control of his body. He pulled Arthur up beside him, pressing him to his side, his head above the water but his eyes closed and his face pale.

 _He's not breathing,_ Alfred thought in a panic. _Fuck, he's not breathing, he's not breathing._

He couldn't stop to help Arthur, though. He had to make it to the other side of the river, the other side of the river, that was all he could think about.

"I won't let go of you, Artie," Alfred told him, even though he knew the Briton couldn't possibly hear him. But talking to him calmed him a bit, tricking himself into thinking that Arthur could hear him and was alive. "You just hold on now. I'll do the work. You just hold on, okay?"

As Alfred cut across the water, he could hear the baying of the dogs at the shore behind him, but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered anymore but getting Arthur to the other side. Alive or dead, he was going to get him there.

Then the men on the shore behind him shouted and began shooting into the water. At first it was behind him, the loud _hiiisssspluk_ of shells tearing through the air and then the water. Alfred forgot to worry about Ivan, forgot to worry about anyone but Arthur. He forgot to the extent that when bullets began sweeping through the water close to his kicking legs and arms, when they began hissing by his head and shoulders, he didn't stop or tense or yelp. He just kept going, because stopping meant death. Arthur's death.

Something broke his focus, though. As the bullets flew over his head and at the others swimming ahead of him, he heard a sharp scream split the air. He knew something was wrong then, and he peered through the dark and the waves until he could see what was going on.

Someone had been hit.

* * *

Translations:

yīnghuā-cherryblossom

A Word From the Writer: Holy shit, this whole chapter is just a mindfuck of awesomeness. You know, aside from England drowning and shit. Still, it makes for good reading, no? And I totally didn't plan this whole escape route around the fact that England can't swim. No, definitely not. And did you get the play on words with the title? No? ... Yes?

But... someone else is in trouble. Who go shot? We might just face the possibility of losing two Hetalia boys in one go.

I told you death was coming, didn't I? _Didn't I?_ TT_TT

Btw, I decided to go and write a fic that was actually super fun to write. Who knew putting "England" and "serial killer" in the same sentence would be so entertaining? A post-Halloween fic I just randomly wrote up one day. Because I'm spontaneous like that. Read _**The Art Collector**_ to tide you over until the next chapter of this. Although it may not give you happy feels after this.


	73. Circle

**"Draw a circle, that's the earth." HINT.  
**

Warning: Angst, dangerous situation, weapons, character death, sad stuffs.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

  
**Circle**

Ludwig ignored the cold. It was just water, that was what he was telling himself. Just water and rocks and not enough to best him. He pulled Feliciano along, who was floating behind him, unable to move for the fright and the cold.

When the bullets began raining down on them, they all yelled and Feliciano began to sob in earnest. "Luddy," he cried. "W-we're going to be hit! They'll shoot us, ve!"

"Just hold onto me, Feli," Ludwig told him, just like he had been telling Feliciano since he had started crying. Because he couldn't tell him everything was going to be all right and he was safe… he could not guarantee that.

Behind them, Francis was struggling against the current, his efforts made harder by Lovino's clinging. "Kick your legs!" Francis yelled at him in frustration. "Help yourself a little!"

"I am, dammit, I am!" Lovino yelled back, but in all honesty he was trying his best just to hang on.

Matthew puffed as he helped Sadiq through the water. The cold was making all his extremities ache and he was beginning to become short of breath, but he pulled Sadiq along as best he could nonetheless. He knew Sadiq's leg was sore as the Turk hadn't been using it to kick across for a while. Despite being short a limb to help him swim, he kept pushing Matthew off of him.

"Stop pulling me!" he shouted over the water. "You need to focus on keeping yourself afloat!"

But Matthew grabbed him anyway, not saying anything, just dragging him through the water like he was some helpless infant. The Canadian's jaw was set, his teeth were chattering, his muscles tense, but he _would not_ lose Sadiq.

Then bullets began hitting the water near them and sailing over their heads, past their shoulders. Everyone began to pick up their pace, shouting and dodging. The group all but scattered. Suddenly Lovino could feel his legs again and began to move them, his grip on Francis increasing significantly. Ludwig pulled Feliciano closer to him, in front of him, pushing him to the far shore which was just ten yards away with all the strength he could spare. Matthew could feel ground rising up to meet his feet, and he lodged himself in the pebbles at the river bottom, pulling Sadiq closer so that he could get his footing as well.

Matthew was oblivious to the shells tearing through the air and water around him, only focusing on Sadiq. But it wasn't until Sadiq lurched forward and grimaced that Matthew noticed something was wrong.

At first he was about to ask if Sadiq had hit a rock, but when he saw red blooming on his shoulder, he screamed.

He was so shocked he couldn't say anything, not even Sadiq's name. He threw his arms forward in a frantic attempt to pull Sadiq in. The man began to move, his body jarring when his feet hit solid ground. His blood sluiced off of him, a splash of color being carried down the river.

Then altogether the gunshots seemed to increase, and bullets riddled the water so much it looked as if it were boiling.

Matthew found his voice again when Sadiq jerked, his feet slipping on the pebbles. "No!"

Blood came off of him more so than before. He'd been hit in the back.

The shock of the bullets hitting him had frozen Sadiq's limbs, and the adrenaline rushing through his system prevented him from feeling anything… but then a few seconds later he could move his arms, though his legs were useless. More than useless—he couldn't move them at all.

And then Sadiq knew: he was paralyzed from the waist down.

He looked at Matthew, who was pale and teary. "Let go," he urged, knowing he was now only deadweight.

Matthew just stared at him in shock for a moment, hands still gripping him tightly.

"Let go."

"I can't!" Matthew said, his voice tremulous. "I won't!"

Before Sadiq could respond, another wave swept over him and his feet couldn't hold him to the ground. They were swept out from under him, and his hands slipped a little out of Matthew's grip.

"Sadiq!" Matthew cried. He looked around. They were alone. Ludwig, Feliciano, Lovino, and Francis were already on the other side and blocked by the raining hail of bullets. The rest of the group was too far away across the river yet to be of any help. He looked back at Sadiq, his heart hammering in his chest.

He could see another wave coming, and he knew this was it. There was no way he could possibly pull him closer without risking him slipping from his grasp. And even though he knew Sadiq would be gone, he couldn't find any words. He just stared and held him for as long as he could.

And then the wave was there, taking Sadiq from him. Matthew surged forward, not caring if he was swept away as well, trying to grab Sadiq as he slipped from him. He only managed to grab hold of some bit of clothing and tore it off. He gasped and choked as he was tumbled through the water, finally finding his footing again, but when he finally got his bearings straight he only confirmed that Sadiq was nowhere to be found.

He looked down, his fingers still wrapped tightly around the remainder of who used to be his lover. His black bandana mask. _Sadiq,_ he thought. And despite the cold, burning tears trailed down his face.

* * *

Alfred watched with horror, unable to do anything, as Sadiq was washed away by the river. He was too far away to help, and he would have to drop Arthur in order to do so. Across the water, he saw lithe shadows flit through the trees, following what must be Sadiq's body downriver.

 _Wolves,_ he mused. _They got what they wanted._

He felt something splashing beside him, and looked to his right, seeing Ivan swimming up to him, pale and soaked through.

The Russian looked at Arthur. "Is he unconscious?"

"I hope. Help me."

And so Ivan took hold of Arthur and, along with Alfred, pulled him across the river.

The bullets were obsolete now. Many of the men had stopped shooting, and there were only a couple that had weapons that had the range enough to get at them so far across the river. When they finally made it to the other side, Ivan took Arthur into his arms and carried him to the shore. On the other side the men called their dogs from the water and stopped shooting.

When Francis saw Arthur's limp body, he rushed forward. "Mon Dieu, what happened? Did he hit a rock?"

Alfred practically snatched Arthur from Ivan's arms and lowered him to the ground. He didn't answer, and he probably was oblivious to the fact that Francis was standing there, right over him, anxious and desperate for answers, so Ivan had to reply for him. "He went under a few times, and he swallowed some water."

Francis stared horrifically down at Arthur as Alfred hunched on his knees over him. "Is he breathing?"

No one said anything.

"Answer me, is he breathing?" Francis's voice was shrill.

But Alfred was too preoccupied to answer. He hovered over Arthur, trying his best to remember his CPR lessons. He was soaked to the skin in weather that was freezing, but he recalled what to do and then he didn't feel anything.

He tipped Arthur's chin and sealed his lips with his, giving him two breaths. The first one did not make the man's chest rise, and Alfred's heart thudded against his ribs. On the second breath, though, Arthur's chest rose and he calmed down a bit. Then he pulled back, placed his hands one on top of the other on Arthur's chest, fingers locked, and began to press.

"Please, please, please," Alfred chanted, his throat already constricting with grief. "Artie, _please_."

More presses, and then he gave Arthur more air. The ribcage rose, but otherwise Arthur did not move. Above him Francis was crying, helpless.

Alfred pulled back, his arms trembling as he pressed thirty more times on his chest, trying to keep his strength in check. Oh God, if he broke Arthur's breastbone…

He leaned in again, barely able to give Arthur breaths for holding back his sobs. When it was clear that Alfred couldn't keep himself composed much less carry out the motions, Ivan stepped in and pushed him aside. "Go," he said, and Alfred moved out of the way, immediately breaking into tears and hiding his face in the crook of his arm.

Ivan gave Arthur breath and went to work on him. He was strong with his presses, but gentle enough not to cause Arthur anymore damage. He studied the pale, wet face. Arthur's lips were verging on blue and he was as cold as a fish, but he hoped that was just from the icy water.

"Artie," Alfred cried. "Artie, oh God." Francis stood beside him, too shocked and terrified to do anything but suppress a rising panic attack.

"Come on," Ivan muttered under his breath as he pressed Arthur's chest. "Breathe, dammit, _come on_."

* * *

Arthur emerged, coughing from the water, and saw nothing around him but waves.

He seemed to be in the middle of an ocean, rocking to and fro on the current. The sun, a ripe red, was setting in the west, kissing the horizon. He was content to just float there and watch it disappear below the water and wait for the stars to come out, but a particularly large wave jostled him and he turned himself around.

It was a longship, its whole structure shimmering as if wrought in gold. The sail was a fashioned out of heavy cloth-of-gold, miraculously bulging with wind. The forty oars, twenty on each side, were pure gold as well, and Arthur took the time to wonder how in the world the great vessel kept afloat.

But his thoughts were forgotten when he saw a figure standing erect at the prow. As it neared him, he made out a tall woman, wreathed in a golden silk stola, a maned helm to the like of a gladiator resting upon her head. Her cloak was blood-red, ruffling beautifully in the seabreeze. One hand held a golden trident while the other held a shield depicting the flag of the union. At her side a lion stood, his mane proud and regal and flowing. She was gazing into the horizon, and the oars seemed to be moving of their own accord, as if there were forty ghostly oarmen pulling them. Arthur knew her even before she looked at him.

"My Arthur." Her voice was as smooth as the silk she was wearing, yet had the underlying strength of iron. "You have come so far. I am proud of you."

"Mother," Arthur said in awe and swam to the ship. Yes, he _swam._ He didn't know how, but he didn't care to linger on it. Britannia was before him in all her might and beauty and he had a sudden urge to stand beside her.

"Mother," he said again, feeling like a small boy again and finally reached the prow, extending his arms so that she could grab him and pull him aboard.

"Yes, sweetling, come here." She moved her shield to her trident hand and reached down for him. "It is time to go home, love. It is time to see your brothers."

Arthur had forgotten what going home and seeing his brothers meant for him; all he wanted to do was go. He was amazed he _could_ go. "All of them? Really?"

"Yes, sweet, they are all waiting for you," Britannia told him, smiling. Her teeth were like little pearls set perfectly in place. "My darling, I've missed you so."

Arthur's eyes were stinging with tears. "Me too, Mother."

Their fingertips brushed, and then Britannia's smile disappeared in a flash to be replaced with a look of shock. Beside her, her lion rumbled. When she pulled her hand back, Arthur gave a wail of despair.

"My love, you will have to wait to see your brothers," Britannia said, disappointment in her voice.

Arthur felt like crying. What had he done to deserve being abandoned? He had been abandoned by everyone and he was sick of it. He had no liking to be left alone among the swells again. "But why?"

Then Britannia's smile returned, though it was sadder this time. "Arthur, you know I am proud of you. Keep making me proud, love. Promise me."

Arthur let out a sob. "I-I promise, Mother." Then he remembered where he was: in the middle of the ocean with no idea where he was at or where he had come from. "Please," he begged. "Don't leave me. I've done everything I can."

"I know you have, darling," Britannia replied. "But remember what I said about always being strong. Nothing is accomplished with tears, sweet."

Arthur stopped crying, though it was incredibly hard. "Yes, Mother."

Then the invisible oarmen picked up and began to row the ship away.

"Be strong, my love. There are so many challenges you have yet to face," Britannia called to him as she rowed away. "Remember there is no edge of the world—it is round. You know that better than anyone. When you fall, you can only get back up again. There is no end to it."

Arthur watched, barely keeping his emotions in check as the sun swallowed Britannia and her golden longship up and then itself disappeared. And Arthur was left in the middle of the sea in the dark, alone, scared, and suddenly finding himself unable to swim again.

The storm rolled in faster than the blink of an eye: roaring clouds that brought with them peals of thunder and flashes of lightning so strong it nearly made him deaf and blind. He was pounded with sheets of rain and hail, and a great, yawning whirlpool opened up beneath him, dragging him down, down, down. He clawed for the surface, but the water closed above him, blocking out the sky and pulling him away from Britannia, and Lennox, and Ian, and Bryce, and everything that could have been called Heaven.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Britannia returns! I like using her, I dunno. Just makes everything more badass. But she kinda proved the whole fic title false. But then I did writer her saying it... oh well, anyway-

England and all his dreams have turned not-so-freaky, eh? But, wait a second, why'd he go to Heaven if he should be going to Hell? Hmm... explanation reserved for later, but until then just ponder that. It's funny, because I can tell with little changes in my writing style what I was absorbed in at the time I wrote each chapter. This one was obviously written after A Storm of Swords reading stint, at least regarding Britannia and all. After reading all of that fantasy stuff I gotta at least give myself a day or so to come down from that or I'll be writing unintentionally in medieval tongue. Which is not good for this fic. Lesson learned... by composing a Hetalia-based Game of Thrones fic. It's still in its infant stages, but I've got the houses and most of the history down. Don't think I'll be posting it for a while, but just a heads up.

And for all those who watch Game of Thrones without reading the books first, READ THE GODDAMN BOOKS. Thank you. :D

Now back to your regularly scheduled programming.


	74. Two Shores

**Prepare to meet the twisted-ass pursuers.  
**

Warning: Angst, sad stuff, dangerous conditions, profanity (a bunch), innuendo, reference to bestiality, gay slur, weapons, insults, new OCs, and a character death (for reals, people).

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

  
**Two Shores**

Francis choked out a sob as Arthur's limbs twitched and his eyes flickered open. Ivan backed away as Arthur rolled onto his side and coughed, trying to pull the water up from his lungs.

He hacked for a good minute, finally managing to cough up a cupful of water. Afterward, as pale as ever, he was so tired that his limbs gave out and he collapsed and he sucked in air, so much he made himself dizzy. It was only then that he realized that he was alive and seeing Britannia and her ship had been some sort of dream. Even though he was alive, he wished he was back in that dream, floating in the water that was warm and felt like silk around him. Fuck, he was _freezing_. His body broke out in uncontrollable shivers.

"Arthur!" Francis cried and knelt beside him, brushing the hair out of his eyes. All of their hair had grown long since the Uprising, and Arthur's was now below the base of his skull. Arthur just looked at him, his eyes hooded and tired, and Francis pulled the man to him, holding him. "I'm sorry. Merde, why did I let you stay behind? Never again." He looked at everyone standing around him. "Does anyone have anything dry to wrap him in? He'll freeze to death next."

"Here," Kiku tossed over a half-wet blanket that had been rolled up in his sleeping bag. Francis caught it and wrapped it around Arthur, who was shivering and chattering so badly that he could barely speak.

"Fr-Francis," he said, his breath a mist.

"Shh, don't talk. Just rest."

Arthur frowned. "D-don't tell m-me to shut u-up, frog."

Francis smiled. "Mon Dieu, he's still snapping. He's going to be okay."

Alfred was staring down at him, his face sticky with tears. "Shit, Artie. You're determined to give me a fucking heart attack aren't you?"

"You saved him when he went under," Francis said to Alfred. "I saw it. Thank you." Then he peered up at Ivan, who was watching and trying to catch his breath. "And you." The Russian could only nod.

Alfred rubbed the back of his head. "Well, seeing as he went under…" Alfred looked at Arthur then. "You act like you can't swim."

Arthur blinked up at him for a moment before shaking his head. "C-can't."

Alfred frowned. "Can't? You can't swim?"

Arthur nodded.

"What the fuck, man?" Alfred laughed a little. "Weren't you a pirate?"

Ivan glared at Gilbert and Kiku. "Weren't one of you supposed to be watching him?"

Kiku shook his head.

Gilbert chewed his lip. "Ja… but I didn't know the crumpet monster couldn't swim! I thought he was right behind me, and the waves separated us. I couldn't stop or go back by the time I noticed he was gone or I would have been shot."

"Mattie," Alfred said suddenly and he rose to his feet, looking around. "Hey, where's Mattie?"

"I saw him come out," Yao reported, furrowing his brow. "But I have not seen Sadiq."

Alfred lowered his eyes. "Sadiq's gone."

Kiku blinked in shock at him. "Gone?"

"Yeah," Alfred wet his lips. "He was… washed down the river."

"Shit," Lovino muttered.

Everyone was silent for a moment.

* * *

"Well go find Matthieu for God's sake," Francis told them. "He must be heartbroken… or worse. Someone look for him."

Matthew stumbled out of the water, his legs shaky and his eyes blurred with tears.

"Sadiq," he whimpered. "Sadiq."

He staggered past the others further into the little clump of forest, tripping over roots, fallen branches, ankle-deep in freezing snow and shivering so much he could retch, but he didn't. He walked until he couldn't take it and leaned against a wind-worn tree and completely broke down.

 _I let him go,_ Matthew thought forlornly. _I couldn't hold onto him. I lost him. I let him go._

He was sitting in the snow by now, sopping wet and chilled to the bone, but he couldn't care. He hid his face in his hands and sobbed. In one he gripped the bandana mask he had given Sadiq in place of his broken one—the last reminder of his love lost. He held it close to his chest, icy fingers gripping it as if he was afraid it would slip from his grasp as well and be lost to him forever.

He was snuffling miserably by the time he heard voices calling his name. He barely responded, content to just sit there and let the snow build up on him until he was no more than a white mound. But, apparently, the rest of his group wasn't going to settle for that.

"Mattie!" It was Alfred. "Mattie!"

Matthew didn't respond, almost hoping that Alfred wouldn't find him. But Alfred did, and he was soon crouched next to him.

"Oh, Mattie. I'm sorry." Alfred held out his arms and Matthew found himself falling into them and crying.

"He's gone," Matthew sobbed. "I couldn't hold him… he's gone. I let him go, Al. I should have held onto him. I should've…" He choked on his words, tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Oh God, Mattie, you're fucking freezing," Alfred said, helping him to his feet. "Nothing's your fault. It was the river… come on. Let's go back and get you warm."

By the time they got back, the men on the other side of the river had settled down and made a fire, determined to wait them out until they froze to death. The nations had been going through their packs, searching for any scrap of warm covering they could. But only a few semi-dry items had been found and those given to Arthur, and Feliciano, and Matthew. They all sat at the edge of the trees in a tight huddle, shivering, hoping to keep warm. Francis held Arthur's hand and took Matthew into his other arm, holding him close and letting him cry his pain away. It was simply heartbreaking to see Matthew like this; was this how it was when Matthew had thought _him_ dead?

"H-how long do you think they will b-be staying there?" Kiku asked Yao, whom he was pressed up against. As much as he hated being confined, he was too cold for his claustrophobia to affect him. He nodded to the men settling down on the other side of the river.

"I do not know," Yao admitted, worry gnawing at his belly.

Ludwig was holding Feliciano close to him and felt the Italian go a little limp. "Feli," he said. "Feli, don't fall asleep." He shook him.

"Ve," Feliciano muttered as he forced his eyes open again. "But I'm so tired…"

Ludwig had to be blunt for Feliciano to follow his orders. "Feli, if you fall asleep, you will die."

And so Feliciano stayed awake as well as everyone else.

* * *

Across the river, the men gathered around the fire, laughing and drinking.

"I knew they was in that ravine," one man said. He was older than most of the others, with a scruffy chin. Beside him, his loyal black bitch lay, panting and wet from the chase. Fleas bounced from her coat and onto her master, who scratched vehemently.

"You say that every time we pick up on a Deceiver's trail, Itch."

They all laughed.

"Yeah, well it was kinda hard to lose them," another man, this one lithe, young, and cocky, commented. "With them leaving footprints in the snow and lighting fires and being so close to the road."

A burly man hacked and spat into the fire. It hissed as if offended. "Dumbasses. Just another reason for us to take 'em out. We could all do with less idiots in this world."

A shaggy blond stepped around the fire, rifle in hand. "I wouldn't be so quick to say that if I were you, Bubba." Everyone laughed except for Bubba, who only gave a bewildered look and spat again.

The young man looked up at the blond. "Eh, Keith, how're our sitting ducks doing over there?"

Keith smiled wickedly as he sat down beside him. "No doubt wishing they would have flown south for winter like all their other pals." They both chuckled. "You know, you never did tell me how you got so accurate with your shot, Luke."

Luke shook his head. "You know that's confidential."

"And yet I have a feeling it's illegal."

"You have a good feeling, then."

"Well, at least we have one guy down."

"Are you sure?"

Keith nodded. "Yep, ran down there a bit just to get the blood pumping. Them wolves had him out of the water, gnawin' on him like they ain't had nothin' to eat for weeks."

"Probably haven't, poor bastards."

"Don't 'poor bastards' them. One of them almost took a chunk out of one of our hounds."

"Ah, Brutus wouldn't let 'em do that to his bitch. Saw them going at it the other night. Were stuck together for a while. I was pretty damn sure for a moment that I'd have to saw them apart."

Luke winced. "Brutus'd have you in your sleep for that."

Keith took out his knife, studying his reflection in the polished blade. "I'd like to see the sonofabitch try."

"It's bound to happen sometime. He's bitten everyone except you, the unruly bastard."

"I say he needs his balls chopped off, that'll calm 'im a bit. And keep him from bangin' everything from here to the moon."

"… He was at Itch's leg yesterday."

"Someone should tell him that's not wise. Might get fleas on his dick."

"How many you think he's knocked up?"

Keith took a look around at their hounds, five in all. "I'd say every one of 'em. Including Tonto. He's made of such chickenshit I'm pretty damn sure he's gone female."

"I hope they don't start shittin' out pups," Luke said. "The last thing we need are hormonal bitches and loud little twerps following us around…"

"We could just eat 'em."

"Heh," Luke nodded over to Itch and his hound. "Try telling Bitch that. She'll tear your arm right off."

"Isn't that why we called her Bitch?"

"Yep. And she responds to it better than all the other sorry fuckers."

They were silent for a moment, staring at the fire. Then Keith looked at Luke, smiling. He patted him on the back. "Good shot today. I'm sorry we couldn't down more of 'em."

Luke laughed. "Thanks, man. Did you hear that other guy scream? I mean he _screamed_ , like a fucking chick."

Keith scoffed. "A faggot, most likely."

"We're like to turn that too before long."

"Not me. I'd rather fuck a horse. Hell, I'll be like Brutus."

"Not with all the women gone migrating to the cities—and used as whores. The Organization orders it of them."

"We'll just have to go to the city, then."

Luke nodded over to the shadows that sat huddled across the river. "How long you think that might be, counting on the stubborn bastards over there?"

Keith's smile widened. "Come morning, they'll be frozen over. And the wolves'll be at them, takin' care of 'em for us like they did their friend when the river took 'im."

* * *

No one fell asleep that night, not even Feliciano. They all remained awake, shivering, teeth chattering, huddling as close as they could to each other. As much as they wanted nothing more than to close their eyes and slip off into what they knew would be a deep sleep, they refused. The sleep may be so deep they may never wake from it.

The night was as long as anything. It could have been an eternity before they finally saw the light again, the sky becoming a brightening gray in the east. Their faces had grown numb and aching with the cold, their wet hair dusted with frost. Feliciano's tears had long frozen on his cheeks.

When the sun peeked over the horizon, Ludwig could see the men stirring on the other side of the river. One man wriggled out of his sleeping bag and was stamping out the fire. Ludwig nudged Feliciano.

"It is morning and the men are moving," he told him, surprised that his voice sounded more akin to a toad than it did a man.

Feliciano looked up at him, a pitiful, shriveled thing. His eyes had lost their enthusiasm, the brightness leeched out of them by the large, dark circles beneath. He looked as pale as death, his lips blue, his whole body wracked with chills. It made Ludwig's heart ache and his gut twist with angst.

"Ve… I-I don't think I can move, Luddy." He blinked slowly, as if trying to keep off sleep. The sight scared Ludwig.

"You will move, Feli," Ludwig told him, though he was unsure of that himself. He tore his eyes off of the Italian to address the others. "The men are moving. Get up, we must leave before they cross the river."

"How in the fuck do you suppose we do that, bastard?" Lovino quipped. "We'll have to find a way to unstick our frozen asses from off the ground first and then make sure our fucking legs still work.

"Lovino," Gilbert said, not feeling up to himself from the cold. "I will carry you if I have to, just cooperate for once."

Lovino shut his mouth then, though it was more out of exhaustion than obedience.

When no one moved, only stared at him, Ludwig said more firmly, "We must move _now_. Do you want them to kill us?"

With that, everyone got to their feet, though slowly and unsteadily. Alfred stood, then bent to help Arthur up, then Matthew. The Canadian turned his face away when he looked at him. Matthew tried to hide it, his shaking, his little sobbing hiccups. But his hair, however long it had grown, could not cover his face entirely; tears ran unhidden down his cheeks, and Alfred saw.

And he didn't know what to say. There was no bright side to everything they were experiencing. "Mattie," he ventured, but it was no use. Even speaking was an effort that he couldn't afford to commit to. So he took his brother's hand and hoped that was enough.

But it only gave Matthew little, lingering comfort. The pain of losing Sadiq was nothing compared to all of his other pains combined. He could still feel Sadiq's hands holding strong to his, blocking out all memory of the vicious iciness of the river. He kept replaying over and over in his mind the time when Sadiq slipped away from him, trying to figure if there was anything he could do to save him. But every time he did, he could not find a way, and he felt even more heartbroken than before.

 _I knew he was going to die,_ Matthew told himself over and over. _I wanted to go faster because I knew it wouldn't be long for him. Why didn't I warn him? Why didn't I warn him? Why couldn't I hold on? I killed him. It was me. Oh God, Sadiq, I'm so sorry._

This time was worse than the time he thought he lost Francis, not in physical reaction, but a mental one. He had been so busy crying over Francis to think about the implications surrounding his death, not as deeply as Sadiq's real death. His instincts told him that now was no time to break down, that he had to keep going for the group. But then that meant that those emotions were expressed internally instead of externally. Matthew didn't know how he would fare, but he barely felt the cold. What he worried about most was if he could keep his head straight enough to be able to go on.

_I miss you already, Sadiq. I love you so much. How could I lose you?_

Thankfully, no one seemed to be too worried about him—at the moment there were more pressing matters to tend to. Like staying alive.

By the time they were all on their feet, the men across the river were pulling down their tents and feeding their hounds. Francis watched warily as they were tossed a bloody haunch of some large animal and tore into it with ferocity. Two dogs ripped apart two pieces attached by tendon, yanking until it snapped. A big black one growled as a smaller, spotted one came gradually closer until the former lashed out, sending the other whining pitifully to the edge of the group, his muzzle dripping blood. Francis winced. He didn't much like the look of that black dog and he hoped he would never have to meet it.

"Let us go," Ivan said. His limbs were stiff, but he did not feel the cold much. "We should have left last night."

"And let them pursue us while we were drenched and freezing?" Arthur asked him. "If we had not stayed, those dogs would have had us like that haunch they're currently ravaging."

Ivan looked at him. "Eyes are usually blinded by shadows and ears deafened by the talk of companions. We could have easily escaped during the night, and they would have had a difficult time catching us."

"Then why didn't you speak up earlier?" Gilbert growled.

Ivan's expression did not change as his gaze fell upon him; his eyes only darkened dangerously. "I am immune to the cold. I would have been able to continue but not the rest of you. And not all of us have the energy to run such long distances. However, it could have been suggested, but I do not take kindly to scathing remarks."

"Shut up, all of you," Alfred said. "We need to leave, _now_."

They were slow going through the sparse stretch of trees before coming once again meeting a sea of endless, rolling snow-white grassland.

"There is nowhere to hide," Yao muttered, though it seemed more like a shout to them. It was what they were all thinking, but too afraid to voice themselves. They were stuck. No ravine, no hills for miles, just an endless expanse of snow that would surely betray them with tracks.

Lovino tensed. "They're going to fucking find us whether we run or not!"

"We must remain calm and figure something out. Nothing can be solved with panic," Kiku said, although he was rather anxious at the moment.

"The road!" Feliciano shouted and everyone looked around.

There, speeding along the little two-lane road, just barely plowing through the snow that covered it, was a large truck followed by two vans. They pulled up along the side of the road, stopped, and the door to the truck opened.

Alfred felt his stomach clench. "Oh shit."

A man stepped out, older, bearded, and a bit round in the belly. He waved at them, no weapon in hand. "Here! Here! Come here! Before those damned men get across that river!"

For a moment everyone just stared in shock and bewilderment. Then they looked at each other.

The man lowered his arms and shouted, "Come on, then! Hurry!"

Then they all looked at Ludwig.

The German swallowed, his mouth dry, his heart pounding, and his time running out. He made what he hoped wouldn't be the worst decision of his and all of their lives. "Let's go."

Ludwig supposed that the howling and barking of dogs near them already on their side of the river proved enough that his plan to run for the vehicles was well made. And so their pace picked up, the doors opening to the vans as well. Ludwig pushed Feliciano in order to keep the Italian in front of him. Feliciano stumbled a bit, hesitating when he arrived at the truck, but the man said to him, "Get in, quickly!"

Ludwig pushed him in and turned to help more in but soon found that the rest had already filled the two vans: Yao, Kiku, Lovino, and Gilbert in the first, and Matthew, Alfred, Arthur, Francis, and Ivan in the last. Ludwig didn't like the idea of being separated from the rest of his group, especially with these strangers, but there was no time for introductions. The hounds were charging out of the forest, catching their sent, and racing toward the road. Their masters were fast on their heels.

"Go!" he shouted to the driver, the round man.

The man didn't say anything, only pressed the gas pedal all the way to the floor and they shot off, swerving for a few gut-wrenching seconds before straightening out and speeding away, the vans close behind them. All of them didn't breathe again until the Organization men and their vicious hounds were but black specks on the white horizon.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Ooh, what have we here? New characters? LOL, I'm making up for losing Turkey with some random people I came up with. So, our boys are hitch-hiking. Never thought that would happen, eh? Ignore the convenient circumstances and just got along. Because at this point it really is best if your just submit to this mindfuck of a fic.

Oh! And England didn't die! Haha, oh, I love England, really. He's so fun to write, but especially when he's almost dying. Just causes so much conflict, ya know?. I like to pick on England a lot. Hard not to pick on a tsun. And have I mentioned I like making America cry? Yeah, that too. I'm just one big bitch. But you know you love it. OR ELSE. :3

BTW, I'm going on another campus tour. Yeah, I know it's kinda late, shaddap. Anyway, I'll be gone next Saturday and probably won't post till Sunday, so just be aware. I hate to leave you hanging like this but... (jk, you know I love to leave you hanging).

And I'm sorry this was posted late. Time just got away from me and... I'm unorganized, people. That's the reason. Mind's just a big clusterfuck. A smutty clusterfuck, granted, but still...


	75. The Hosts

**The OCs have names (and a back story... sort of)! OAO  
**

Warning: Angst, weapons, threats, abuse, reference to miscarriage, reference to rape, just a whole lotta shit I'm sure you're all used to by now.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**The Hosts**

Silence pervaded the van.

No one spoke for a long time, their eyes occasionally wandered to watch out of the windows, but always they returned to the two mysterious figures in the front seats.

"Who are you?" Ivan finally asked, his voice devoid of every childlike aspect. It was deep and demanding, leaving no room for evasion. "And why did you save us?"

The one in the passenger's seat spoke, "You were running from the Organization bounty hunters. We had every reason to stop and pick you up." It was a woman.

A suspicious knot formed in Ivan's gut. "You have not answered my first question."

A moment of silence passed, then she spoke again, "Let's play a game: I ask you a question, and you ask me a question after. The only rule is that you must answer my every question and truthfully."

Ivan frowned, not liking how she was manipulating him. But he would play along if it meant extracting information. "All right. Go ahead."

Alfred grabbed his leg and peered up at him, eyes wide. "Ivan," he mouthed, but it was too late. The game had already begun.

Without turning around, the woman began, "Your accent is Russian, I believe. Are you a citizen here or of your native Russia?"

Ivan held back a snort of derision. "Russia," Now it was his turn. He thought for a moment. "Where are you going to?"

"A safehouse in Illinois."

"Where in Illinois?"

The woman chuckled. "You forget, sir. Now it is my turn. Why are you here?"

"A business trip. I was trapped here when the Uprising began and the airports shut down."

The woman laughed again. "Now, don't give me that crap. Every foreigner says that. It's common knowledge that every one of them has been trapped here since they flew in on business. I suggest you correct your answer or this game will be done and you will hear nothing more from me."

Ivan struggled to keep his temper in check. He couldn't afford to get them kicked out of the van and separated from everyone else. He cleared his throat. "I am a fisherman from Siberia. I used to work on the Bering Sea and live on Big Diomede Island. A few months ago a storm forced my crew and I to land in Alaska. Our ship was damaged during the storm and we decided to fly down into Washington to see the sights. The Uprising trapped us here." He paused to think, then said, "What did the Organization do to you and your companions that made you hate them so much?"

The woman didn't answer for a moment. Then she replied, "We are all from broken households. I lost my husband to them, and they took my son from me." She brooded silently before asking, "You say that you have been traveling with your shipmates, but your friends hardly sound Russian to me. Who are you really?"

"I am who I say I am." Ivan chose his words carefully now. The woman was starting to get suspicious. "We were ambushed by Organization men, and I was the only one of the crew to survive. I travel with those who are against the Organization. What did they do to your son?" Ivan knew it was a sensitive question and that he was pushing his limit asking it, but he had to know just how dangerous the Organization really was.

The woman swallowed. "Killed him—they kicked me in the stomach." Her voice was stony, giving no hint of grief. She had been hardened.

Ivan really felt like an ass now. "I am sorry."

"Don't be. You know, I had a grandfather who was an Alaskan fisherman." Ivan stiffened. "And he worked the Aleutian Islands and lived on Little Diomede Island. Tell me, what kind of fish makes up the majority of your catch?"

Ivan forced the tension out of his shoulders and answered calmly, "It depends on the season and the location. But I was employed as a king crab fisherman and most of the fish we caught in our pots and threw back or used as bait were cod. How many of you are traveling together?"

"Five in all. You?"

"Tw—eleven. We lost one to the river last night." Beside Francis, Matthew's throat clenched in grief.

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"He was very brave and we will miss him. What is your name?"

The woman's smile was evident in her voice. "Jeanne. All of you?"

Everyone in the backseat looked at him, but Ivan was in control now. He would decide whether or not it was best to give their identities. Ivan knew he was being harsh by saying this, but he had to have proof that this woman and her friends were people they could trust. "Let me see where they kicked you."

Jeanne stiffened a bit and didn't move for a good minute. Just when Ivan was getting suspicious about her previous answers, Jeanne unbuckled her seatbelt, turned in her seat, and faced them.

She was young and pretty, with short brown hair and a freckled face, but her green eyes were hard. She rolled up her shirt, exposing her belly which was still rounded with traces of pregnancy. The bruise there was purple and a sickly yellow, spreading nearly from hip to hip. There were some places where there was a bruise in the shape of a heel or tip of a shoe. Ivan looked up at her face once he was done examining and found her expressionless.

"Convinced, or would you like to see my dead son as well?"

"No, thank you. That will be all."

Jeanne yanked down her shirt and sat back in her seat. "Now, my question needs answering. What are all of your names?" She clicked in her seat belt.

"I am Ivan." Ivan began, and the other looked at him in horror. But Ivan somewhat trusted this woman; the bruise on her stomach was more than adequate evidence as to which side she was on. "And these are Alfred, Arthur, Francis, and Matthew. The other van contains Gilbert, Lovino, Yao, and Kiku. In the truck are Ludwig and Feliciano."

Arthur could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Ivan was giving away their most valuable information, information that could save them or kill them: their names. The Brit was beyond furious, he was enraged. Who had given him the right? But he couldn't afford to berate him now without attracting suspicion, so he was forced to keep his mouth shut. For now.

Jeanne seemed more cheery now—possibly because she thought she had the upper hand, knowing all of their names. "Alfred, you said? I do believe the Organization is looking for an Alfred. Would his full name happen to be Alfred F. Jones?"

Alfred tensed noticeably in his seat. He thought he saw the driver glance at him through the rearview mirror, but he could just be seeing things. His hand tightened on Ivan's thigh. _No,_ he thought. _No, no, not this. I'm not ready yet. Dammit, Ivan, I'm going to kill you!_ But he was far from being able to throttle the Russian… in fact, he was just plain terrified. He looked up at Ivan with wide, white eyes, but Ivan was determined to remain stoic and sure, and so he was ignored.

Despite his calm exterior, Ivan was a churning mess on the inside. Oh God, what had he done? They knew, they _knew_. And even if he told them that this was a different Alfred, they still wouldn't believe him—if they had heard his name, they had surely seen his face that was no doubt being put up on posters everywhere. But he couldn't afford to hesitate. He had to answer.

Thinking fast, Ivan said, "I had not heard of the Organization searching for someone."

"That is not an answer."

"It is not," he admitted. "I need more information if I am to determine if the Organization is after my companion."

The woman chuckled, and Ivan knew she knew she had him cornered. "Very well. The Organization has put up his poster everywhere, and they have begun building large screens in major cities with your companion's face lit up in billions of high-resolution pixels for all to see."

Ivan felt Alfred flinch beside him, and his nails dug into his leg.

"What is his profile?"

"Dark blond hair, glasses, blue eyes, relatively tall, has a prominent cowlick."

 _No,_ Ivan thought, and he looked down at Alfred, who was trembling now. The younger man peered up at him, mouthing _Don't_. He knew Ivan better than Ivan had thought. He knew just what he was thinking about doing.

But it was too late to go back now. One of his hands dipped into his coat, fingers brushing the sleek AK-47 hidden in the folds. This could be it. They might have to bail. But keeping together wasn't Ivan's primary goal, it was keeping Alfred alive, and if that meant splitting from the group then he would surely do it.

But he wasn't going to let these people get away knowing they had found Alfred F. Jones and so tell everyone where he may be. That was just too risky.

So he wrapped an arm around Alfred's shoulder… and slipped his handgun out of the holster at his side. Then, when the driver wasn't looking Ivan lunged forward, snatching up Jeanne's hair and pointing the gun to her temple.

"If you mean us any sort of harm," he growled, disabling the weapon's safety lock. "Do not think I will not kill you and leave your body on the side of the road. Your sad story will not guilt me, I assure you."

The man driving looked over at him, his eyes wide and his face pale. "H-hey, man, chill. We're not going to—"

"Shut up," Ivan barked at him. "And watch the road." And the man did so, though he couldn't keep his eyes from glancing over to them every few seconds.

Jeanne licked her lips and swallowed. Her face was completely calm, but she was trembling noticeably. "Would you harm a fellow survivor? A resister?"

"I would harm a murderer."

"Did I say that I was? Do you honestly think my group, only five in number, would try to capture or kill you if you outnumber us two to one?"

Ivan pressed the barrel further into her head. "Where have you come from and where are you going? Answer me slowly or deceitfully and I will plant a bullet in your brain."

Jeanne licked her lips again. "I am from Astoria, Washington. We are all from the northwest, except for Carter here." She nodded to the driver with the blue baseball cap and thick glasses. "He's from southern California. I escaped from Organization clutches and found Gerald—the old, fat guy driving the truck, you'll see him as soon as we stop—and we decided to go south. Along the way our group grew, some were picked off. Same as you; we are fleeing the Organization."

Ivan frowned. "Why would they want you?"

"They want anyone who will bend to their will or break under pressure. They hunt everyone who resists them and forces them to obey them. Wonder why I'm the only woman in this group? The Organization herded them all up like sheep close to the beginning of their rule, giving them the sole duty of pleasing the men and expanding the population like breed sows. And I have heard that girls have become victims as well along with some young boys. Though they keep that last part quiet. They haven't gotten everyone conditioned to their philosophies just yet and the mutiny that would come with those reports would ruin them."

Ivan was silent for a moment, taking in Jeanne's determined expression and words. Then he said, "You are going to start a mutiny."

"More or less. No one murders my family and gets away with it. My son and husband's ghosts will be the banes of their existence once the fighting starts. I'll kill every last one of them if I have to, with my own two hands if need be. I know I could do it." Then, boldly, she turned to look at Ivan. The gun was now pressed to her forehead, but she was staring up at him with placid green eyes. "But, as you can imagine we need a much bigger force if we are to depose the Usurpers, and killing me would mean one less person who is strong enough to stand up to them."

They stared at each other for a moment, and, for a fleeting moment, Ivan saw Natalya. It wasn't as fierce, but it was in Jeanne's gaze: that strength and power. And Ivan knew how that strength and power came to her, for he too harbored it: by enduring some life agony. Ivan had gone through many, and he understood her need for vengeance. He lowered his weapon.

"We will join you," Ivan said, then he leaned in and whispered, "Close your eyes."

When Jeanne gave him a bewildered look and didn't obey, he hissed, " _Close your eyes_."

She did and Ivan made sure to keep the gun pressed to her head as he shut his own. He was very aware that everyone in the van was staring at them, but he ignored that and extended the tendrils of his mind to Jeanne's own. He tried to tread lightly, for he didn't want Jeanne to be alarmed nor have her find out what he was doing to her. But he had to know.

Slowly and trying not to disrupt her mind or alert it to his presence, he went through her memories.

She was young, a girl of seven at least, playing jump rope on the sidewalk outside her home. Her friends were giggling and singing as they turned the rope and Jeanne switched skillfully from leg to leg. Then there was a shout, and Jeanne's father stomped out of the house. He snatched her up by the arm and her friends dropped the rope, peering up at him with wide eyes. Jeanne was dragged into the house while her friends fled.

Then there was another Jeanne, thirteen, hair cut short and dyed with rebellion. Ivan got an almost suffocating feeling of being trapped, and Jeanne's father shouted. She looked over her shoulder and darted around her room, picking up a bag and scooping as many of her belongings as she could inside. That night she escaped for good.

She was sixteen now, alone and sleeping in a women's shelter. She had just been told that there was no longer room for her and she had to leave. Out on the dark, busy streets a veil of hopelessness fell over her and she just sat down and cried right on the curb. And then a feeling rose inside of her and spread like lightning to her limbs. Right then she _knew_ she couldn't give up, because something was planned for her later on. She knew she was important, no matter how much her father had told her she was worthless. She would amount to something, society be damned.

At eighteen, she had finally scraped up enough money to afford some decent clothes and gotten a job at a gas station in a seedy part of town. One night, two masked men came in, banging on the counter, pointing a gun at her face, and demanding the cash. They certainly hadn't expected her to launch herself over the counter and punch one of them in the throat. She snatched the gun from his hand and aimed it at his friend, and she never saw the man again.

Then one day, not a year later, a man walked in who was more amiable than most. He had light hair, soft eyes, and a warm smile. Even when he bought something he always stayed around to talk with her, and these conversations got longer and longer by the day. Pretty soon, the man was coming to the station every day. He began to say that Jeanne was too pretty to be working in such a horrible place, that he could get her out of there. She told him elsewise, but the man insisted she come to an interview he'd arranged for her at his own station: a police station.

A couple years on, and Jeanne was at the highlight of her life. She and the man, both now honorable officers, had married and they owned a home together. Her childhood home was far from her thoughts, and she busied her days with patrols and chasing down criminals. When she found out she was pregnant, though, she thought her life was over. The freedom she had experienced while on the force had become so important to her. But her husband assured her that she would be a great mother. Jeanne decided to quit her job as soon as she was showing; the work would be too risky and the hours too strenuous.

She was six months along, but Jeanne began to fear for her baby. There was much unrest and revolt in the street. It looked as if even the national guard couldn't keep the public in check. A state of emergency was declared across the nation, and soon after the capital fell. During that time, Jeanne's town had become riddled with rioters, thieves, and murderers alike. She and her husband packed and fled, but they didn't get far. Gas stations were dangerous places, with lines that stretched twenty cars long, and fights often breaking out, some of them particularly violent. They were soon forced to abandon their car and walk along the road, hoping to flag down someone who would take them to the husband's parents' home. Eventually a vehicle did pull over—but Jeanne's husband recognized them immediately. Before Jeanne could ask why, he was screaming at her to run. And so she ran, but she didn't get far before they started shooting at her. She heard her husband shout and a body fall to the ground, but she dare not look back. When they planted a bullet in her leg, she fell, throwing her arms in front of her just in time to avoid landing on her swollen belly.

A man took her by the hair and dragged her back to their van, right past her husband's bleeding corpse. She screamed, but she was quickly slapped into silence and millions of questions were hurled her way. But she couldn't answer, she wasn't listening; she was shaking her head and crying and the men began to kick her. She shouted at them to stop through her tears, begged them, for her son's sake. But they just kept on and on and on until she passed out from the pain.

The next she woke, she was handcuffed and laying on the ground five feet or so away from the men. They were in some sort of deserted house, but she didn't allow herself to take in the details. She lay there silent, barely breathing, for hours, waiting for the men to fall asleep. When the last one finally fell into slumber, Jeanne got to her feet and fled. Her whole body ached and her head was pounding, but she _needed_ to get out of there. None woke up. Not even one had heard her. But her relief was short-lived; now she was alone, pregnant, and in a place she did not know, though she would soon find out that one of those facts was false. She prayed to feel movements in her womb—a kick, the brushing of a hand, anything—but for weeks she felt nothing. She had to accept that her son was dead inside her, but admitting it didn't make it any less devastating. Ivan knew she had birthed him alone and in pain, but the memory hammered his own mind with such grief that he had to cease his intrusion.

From then on she kept herself alive on only one goal: killing the Organization in every way possible, just like they killed her baby. Even Ivan balked at the rage flowing off of her mind. It was more than obvious that this woman, Jeanne, had a bloody vendetta against the Organization and she would never stop hunting them unless she was killed herself.

Ivan shivered and withdrew from her mind, feeling the icy chill of her enmity slowly disappear.

Jeanne looked impatient. "Are you done now? What the hell did you even do?"

"Da, you can open your eyes."

Jeanne did so and fixed him with a stern stare. "You're not going to tell me why you said for me to do that, are you?"

"No," Ivan admitted. "But I will say that we are in your debt. We are also outrunning the Organization and we will help you do whatever it takes to get rid of them."

* * *

"So, are you two lovers?"

The question caught Ludwig off guard after an hour of silence. "Uh, well, um…"

"Si," Feliciano answered groggily for him, squeezing Ludwig's hand which he had been holding for a while. "We are."

Ludwig tried to hide his blush, and the driver said, "Oh, well I don't discriminate. We're all friends here if you were really running away from those Organization men."

"We were," Ludwig replied, feeling a bit exposed without the rest of his group with him. What were they doing anyway? Had something bad happened to them? Sure these people had picked them up and driven them to safety, but that didn't mean they weren't out to get them. He had no proof of these peoples' loyalty—or if they even had any. He would have liked to ask the man questions, but he figured that when they stopped and the whole group was together again, they would have more success in finding out just who these people were.

He looked down at Feliciano. The Italian had been shivering considerably earlier, but the driver had thankfully turned the heat up so that he was more comfortable. And now he was asleep, hunched against Ludwig, head on his shoulder. The German stared at his lover and held him close. _Oh, Feli, if you only knew what I would do for you…_

Anything.

They eventually came to a stop by a copse of trees; it was the only sign of growth around. The man turned back to look at them. "We're stopping for the day. We've gone through our daily allowance of fuel. We'll start again tomorrow."

Ludwig agreed with that. "We have tents—"

"That's all right," the man said, waving a dismissive hand. "We all sleep in the vehicles anyway. We'll find room."

"Ve," Feliciano mumbled, waking upon feeling the truck come to a stop. "I want to see the others."

"Ja, we had a rough night last. I must check on them."

The man nodded. "Sure. And the name's Gerald."

It was an obvious invitation to introduce himself, but Ludwig couldn't afford to… yet. So he only nodded respectfully and said, "Ja, I will remember. And thank you for saving us."

"No prob. Anything that puts a knot in the Organization's tail."

Gerald unlocked the doors and they opened automatically. A cold rush of air met them, and Feliciano shrunk back.

"Ve, it's cold." He clung to Ludwig.

"It's okay, Feli. It's just snow."

Ludwig was the first one out, closely watching Gerald. But the man remained where he was, looking over what must be a map. It took a moment to convince Feliciano to come out, but he eventually gave in and joined his side.

The other vehicles had stopped and everyone was getting out, none too pleased to be out in the cold so soon. He noticed Ivan chatting idly with a woman and frowned. He walked up to join the rest of his own group and said, "Feliciano, stay here with your brother. I need to go do something, okay?"

Feliciano nodded, sniffling and Lovino gave Ludwig a suspicious look, though he didn't say anything.

Ludwig walked up to Ivan pulling on his sleeve. The taller man stopped talking and turned to him. "Da? Is something wrong?"

The woman smiled. "So this must be Ludwig." She held out her hand.

But Ludwig didn't take it. Instead, he took Ivan's sleeve. "We need to speak alone. _Now_."

Ivan frowned and followed Ludwig as they went to stand under the trees, well out of earshot of the others.

Ludwig crossed his arms and glared. "What are you doing?"

Ivan blinked innocently. "Talking with the nice woman, what is—"

"How much have you told her?" Ludwig pushed.

Ivan got what he was going at and frowned. "I told her all that was necessary. I—"

"Ivan!" Arthur snapped and was suddenly standing beside them. Both of their gazes fell on him. "Are you an idiot? Why did you say that?"

"What did he say?" Ludwig asked, worry gnawing at him now.

Arthur glared pointedly at the Russian. "Our names. That woman asked about Alfred, too, and you practically gave it away that he's the one the Organization is looking for!"

"You _what_?" Ludwig said, shocked. He thought Ivan had more sense than that.

Ivan was now very angry. He glared. "I am not an idiot. You are making a big deal over nothing."

Arthur was exasperated. "Our _names_ are nothing? Ivan, you can't just go about giving our identities to every stranger we meet—"

"I looked into her mind," Ivan told him and Arthur seemed to calm a bit. "She suffered much at the hands of the Organization and wants nothing more than to exterminate them."

"Have you checked the others' minds as well?" Ludwig asked.

"Nyet," Ivan said, and he had to admit, he knew that was wrong.

Arthur was furious. "Don't you ever, _ever_ do that without consulting us again, Ivan."

"I do not need to be scolded like a child, Arthur," Ivan flashed back, his voice turning into a growl. "I have interrogated people before. I know what to look for regarding deceit."

"Yes, but does being in a _group_ mean anything to you?" Arthur asked. "As a child you fell into a trap because you believed a stranger's words. Have you learned nothing from that?"

Ivan was enraged now. No one mentioned that about his past. _No one_. He felt like snatching Arthur up by the collar, but he didn't, though the urge was very hard to resist. He settled for leaning down to the Briton's level and scowling. "Insulting me will do us more harm than good now, Arthur. How dare you say that after what I have been through? Do you think I _expected_ someone to do that to me, huh? Oh no, wait, I forgot, England is _perfect_. He had the perfect childhood with the perfect life and the perfect empire. And what did poor Russia have? Blood and torture and rape. You should hold your tongue when it comes to matters you haven't even known."

Arthur was a little intimidated, but his worry for Alfred made him hold his ground. "If you learned, then you would know when not to say anything, for Alfred's sake."

Ivan's eyes flashed. "Why should I take any advice from the person who couldn't hold onto him in the first place?"

When Ludwig saw Arthur's face go red and his fists ball up at his sides in anger, he had to say something. They couldn't risk a fight now. They couldn't risk being seen as divided. "You two are both bickering like children. Stop. Do you want to let them see us fighting each other? It doesn't matter what has been said and what has not been said or what has happened in the past, we need to stick together and that means _no fighting_."

It was obvious that the two men before him would throw punches to defend their opinions, but they eventually backed down at his words.

"I'm… sorry, comrade," Ivan was the first to apologize, throwing back the Briton's accusation of his immaturity by being the better man. "I know you take responsibility for whatever happens to us, and I should have consulted you before saying anything. But my instincts say she's a good person, and I have learned much from my mistakes so I know how to judge. If she is good, then her friends are."

Arthur scoffed and looked away, embarrassed at losing his nerve. "I suppose I'm sorry as well, but I _will_ be participating more in this group from now on. It's obvious that my counsel is needed." And before they could say anymore, he turned and walked off.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Well... I know I said to expect me to post on Sunday, but SURPRISE BITCHES I'M HERE! The tour wasn't actually all that long and we didn't have to drive as far as we did last time so, yay, new chapter, y'alls! I got home at around two and would have posted it sooner but I got distracted when I went to search the interwebs by the Google doodle Doctor Who game thing that only took me 31 minutes to complete (I ain't a gamer) and by then I forgot what I was searching for (damn you Google and your tempting doodles!) and decided to watch the first and second episodes of Attack on Titan with my sister (I dunno, people, Hetalia might have to share my heart with this one. Two episodes in and I'm already hooked!). Aside from that, we got ourselves some fracturing within the group dynamic! I always love to pit characters against each other, and as much as you know I love to get England into trouble, I was merciful this time and didn't make Russia lay him out. And whaddaya think about my OCs? Like, okay, Jeanne, the only one you've really met. And YES her name does imply what you're all thinking, though since she's 'Murican her name isn't pronounced like its French counterpart. BUT STILL.

Things are getting heavy and now they're all getting more and more stressed. The only thing that can mean is DRAMA. And I got plenty of it! *points to next button*


	76. Something Lost, Something Broken

**SHIT GETS REAL.  
**

Warning: Angst (as always), paranoia, sad stuffs, RusAme fluff, innuendo, and some disturbing bodily harm at the end.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Something Lost, Something Broken**

"Mattie?"

Alfred was getting worried now. Matthew hadn't spoken, hadn't even taken his eyes off the ground since the night before. He was terribly pale and he just stood there as if he couldn't hear or feel anything. Alfred put an arm around him and shook him.

"Mattie? Bro, come on, talk."

Matthew licked his lips. "We weren't even together yet."

"What?" Alfred asked, confused.

"We should have moved faster. We were only… intimate once, and I felt like he knew me forever. I miss his face. I miss everything about him."

Alfred frowned when he saw tears rolling down Matthew's face and he pulled him close. "Mattie, I'm sorry. Tonight we'll do something for him. We'll remember him."

Matthew was crying, but he didn't make a sound. His voice didn't even give away his grief. It was strange to Alfred. "No one noticed me until now, except Cuba. And then I lost him. Now I don't have Sadiq either. Once again everyone has someone for themselves, but I'm alone."

"Don't say that," Alfred told him. "You're never alone, Mattie. I'm here."

 _Yeah, but are you Cuba?_ Matthew wanted to ask him. _Are you Sadiq? Can you love me like they could?_

Francis came up to them and the last thing Matthew wanted was for more people to fuss over him.

"What's wrong, petit?" he asked, but Matthew turned and walked away.

Francis stared in bewilderment at Alfred. "Is he okay?"

"Just a little sad," Alfred answered. _More like broken._ He watched his brother go and stand beneath a tree, far away from them all, staring down the road, his back to them. "We should give him some space. He doesn't want to be held this time. I think he's just in shock. When he comes out of it, he'll be more reasonable."

"Sadiq was a good man," Francis said, tearing up himself. "He wanted the best for mon petit, I could tell. They would have been so happy together. It really isn't fair."

 _Could have,_ Alfred thought. _Ivan and I could be 'could have.' Any one of us could be 'could have's. It only takes that much, and our lives are ruined._

Jeanne walked up to them. "Is everything well?"

"Yeah," Alfred said, his anxiety picking up. For all he knew this lady could be out to get him. Though it was hard to say seeing her six-month-old belly bulging beneath her sweater.

He would have said more if it wasn't for Ludwig saying, "We need to regroup and honor our dead. You can have your vehicles, we have our tents."

Jeanne blinked in surprise. "But won't you be cold?"

"We have sleeping bags that we share," Ludwig explained.

Jeanne nodded. "I understand. We'll give you your space. Do you guys need any food?"

Lovino was about to speak up in an obvious 'yes', but Ludwig shook his head. "No, we have plenty, thank you." He just wanted her to go away. He needed her friends to go away. Ludwig should have ordered to be dropped off on the side of the road. Dealing with these people was just something else to worry about, and he already had enough stuff on his plate to deal with.

"What's up?" Alfred asked, frowning suspiciously as he saw Ludwig, Ivan, and Arthur return, appearing worked up.

Ludwig waved it off. "Nothing. We have more important matters to tend to." He bid them all gather around before saying, "All right, look. These people may have gotten us out of a tight spot, but that doesn't mean we should take them at their word." His eyes trailed over to Ivan, who was looking a bit annoyed at this point. "I want everyone to be on their guard. Try not to tell them anything personal, especially not that we're countries or what we plan to do in the capital." Then he added, "And we have also lost one of our own. Now's not the time to split over fights. Now more than ever we need to stick together." He glanced at Matthew who had his eyes downcast, leaning on Francis. "We will put to rest what he left behind. Alfred, go get his things." Ludwig thought it wise Matthew not see his lover's belongings. It might bring up unpleasant thoughts.

Alfred nodded. "Okay," Although he appeared reluctant to leave his brother, he went off anyway.

"Ivan," Ludwig directed his gaze to the Russian next, seeing that he was currently not on good terms with him. "Take Matthew with you and let him choose a nice place to bury them."

"Da," Ivan said. "Matvey?"

Matthew didn't want to find a place to bury Sadiq's things—he wanted Sadiq back. Burying everything he brought that he considered important seemed like he was burying his memory. Matthew might as well let them shovel dirt over him, too. At this point he didn't care. He was numb, and the words everyone said to him came across as if they were some language he didn't care to understand. He didn't want their condolences. He didn't want to be comforted. Every time someone did that, it brought back the fact that Matthew was once again alone, standing at the edge of everything sane, with no safety net to catch him. And he was the only one falling.

But of course no one noticed the agony going on inside him. They would talk and laugh and love and forget Matthew just like they had before.

He had to hear his name a second time before he realized that he couldn't escape this. He had to face Sadiq's death one way or another. It was right to put him to rest, even if they didn't have a body.

Matthew choked back another round of tears thinking about Sadiq who was now a corpse somewhere most likely being fed off of by animals—his beautiful face that Matthew never got a chance to fully appreciate being chewed off as they spoke. He would have broken down if it wasn't for Ivan wrapping an arm around him

"Come," he said. His tone was sympathetic, and Matthew wanted to punch him. "Let's go find a special place, da?"

Matthew nodded, though he never really said anything outside of 'yes' and 'no' and sometimes he would just shake his head or nod. In the end he was so uncooperative and quiet that Ivan chose. It was a place between two tall pines. "They look strong," Ivan told him. "Like he was."

Matthew couldn't believe they were already referring to Sadiq in the past tense. He watched as Ivan dug the hole and with every discarded shovelful more tears blurred his vision. _Stop,_ he thought. _Just stop, please. Why do you have to torture me like this? First Francis, now him. I loved him you bastard, and you just took him away. What did I do? Why? Why?_ His legs shook and he was fully prepared to let them give out when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Mattie," Alfred murmured, and just hearing his name grounded Matthew if not a little. The hand on his shoulder did not budge as Alfred gave Sadiq's belongings over to Ivan. The Russian nodded in thanks and took them out, one by one.

Every item was agony, even the trinkets. Sadiq's sash, his wallet, his lighter, a torn letter, a curious little cat locket. A Turkish book, his hat, his cloak, reading glasses that Matthew hadn't even known he had. As soon as the last of them was dropped into the grave, Ivan looked to him. "That bandana. His mask. Do you want to—?"

"No," Matthew almost barked and Ivan blinked in shock at his sharp tone, giving an understanding nod. He returned to his work, sticking the spade into the frosted earth and shoveling dirt over the pile of Sadiq's memories. Matthew forced himself to watch every bit of it, to accept the fact that Sadiq was no longer with him, but all the while it took every bit of what he had to keep from bursting into tears.

When Ivan was done, he walked over to Alfred. "Is finished."

"Mattie," Alfred said again, and Matthew was already wishing it was Sadiq's voice instead of his brother's saying his name. "Mattie, I'm—"

"Leave him, Alfred," Ivan interjected. He had come to realize that Matthew wanted no apologies and the Canadian was grateful for that.

Alfred peered up at his lover. "But—"

"Come," And Ivan led him away with an arm slung across his shoulders. Matthew watched them go.

 _Ivan is such a good partner,_ he thought enviously. _Alfred is lucky to have him. Always so lucky when I get the shitheap. I finally found someone who could see me for who I am, who truly_ loved _me, and then he's snatched away from me. Just like Cuba. Just like every fucking thing that has been good in my life. Gone!_

Matthew then fell to his knees and felt secure enough to cry outright. Hot tears cut through the numbness on his face and mucus clogged his nose and throat. He was such a mess, but he didn't care. _Sadiq_ was a mess, he was sure, wherever he was now.

"I miss you," Matthew cried. "I miss you so much, Sadiq. I'm sorry. I should have held on. Oh God, I'm sorry. I'm sorry."

The initial sorrow was over. It was frustration that overpowered him now. Matthew grabbed his hair, pulling hard, wanting to pull it all out. At least then the pain would distract him. It was only what he deserved for letting go. For being so _weak_.

He stayed there for what felt like the longest time and then he realized it was dark, and he could feel his tears frozen on his face. By now all the nations were bundled up in their tents, curled up to their loved ones, having long forgotten about him and his grief, as always. They didn't understand. No one ever did understand.

Matthew was freezing, but he didn't want to return to the camp. Not yet. He stared down at his arm and pulled off the bandana that was tied there—the mask he had given to Sadiq only days before he had died. He brought it up to his face, smelling him on the thin fabric. He gave another despairing sob.

"I love you," Matthew said before getting to his shaky feet. He turned to walk away, to leave it all behind, and something fell out of his pocket. He looked down and crouched to examine it further.

It was a knife, the blade sharpened earlier and glinting in the moonlight. He stared at it curiously before deciding.

"I love you," Matthew whispered and blood melted the snow below him.

* * *

Alfred lay next to him as a slient as he had ever been and just as still. His back was to him and his breaths were shallow.

"Alfred?" Ivan asked worriedly.

Alfred took his first deep breath for an hour. "Yeah, Vanya?"

"You're thinking about… them, are you not?"

Alfred chewed his lip and his eyes stung. "Yeah," Sadiq's death had brought back his nightmare about Penny and her death. Marge's wasn't so far behind after that. He had a duty to his children and that was to keep them safe at all costs. He had let them down. What kind of parent was he? How many more of his children had to die before he was punished enough?

Ivan's arm wrapping around him and pulling him close gave him comfort. "You should not feel responsible. Everyone has their time."

"They're my children," Alfred protested, sniffing. "I _should_ feel responsible."

"I felt responsible for my sisters' deaths," Ivan admitted, feeling a dreary coldness steal over him. "But that did not bring them back."

"No," Alfred agreed, balling his hand into a fist. "But it reminds me of what I need to do." Alfred turned to face him. "I swear as long as I'm still living, I will destroy them. I will burn my capital to the ground if I have to."

Ivan laced his fingers with Alfred's. "And I swear that I will be by your side when you do."

Alfred smiled. "You're just saying that for sex."

"Nyet," Ivan said. "I say it because I love you."

Alfred cursed himself for tearing up again. _God, I'm such a fucking girl._ "I love you, too." And he kissed Ivan.

When they parted, Ivan shrugged. "Maybe I say partly for sex." He smirked.

Alfred laughed. "Of course, you dick." Their lips brushed and Alfred squeezed his hand.

_Fuck, I'd do anything for you. Years before I would have done anything to have you gone. I was such an idiot. Why couldn't I see that—_

There was a rustling outside, the sound of feet moving across the ground. A shadow passed over their tent before it bent and fumbled with the zipper. Alfred made to jump away from Ivan and search for his gun, but the Russian braced an arm around him and he couldn't get away.

Ivan groped around for a weapon and found Alfred's handgun. Thank fuck, it was still loaded. He put the safety off and aimed it at the dark form now pulling up the zipper to their tent.

 _I said too much,_ Ivan thought, his gut clenching in guilt. _Ludwig was right, dammit, I shouldn't have given information so soon. Now they know about Alfred. They're coming for him, but I will—_

_I will…_

A blond head ducked into the tent and fell to the ground, followed by his shivering form. He raised himself to his knees, blood smearing the tent and running down his arms. The eyes were wide and scared and crying. Ivan let the gun fall from his hand and he barely heard it hit the ground.

Matthew held out his wrists, blood pulsing from deep cuts. "Alfred," he said softly, tremulously. "Help me."

* * *

Translations:

 _petit_ -little one

A Word From the Writer: This is so depressing... but, hey, it was fun to write, so... shut up, don't judge me. Anywho, I made poor Canada cut himself. Oh, don't deny you all knew it was going to happen sometime. If he wasn't doing it before, he sure as hell would do it now. Now, I'll say that we are in the short stretch of the fic, so of course more and more nations are going to be dying (their deaths closer together in timing as the fic progresses), so you'll all have perpetually sad feels, which is what I want anyway. What I'm trying to imply is that Canada may not make it through the next chapter. I mean, exactly how deep did he cut? Just a little something to haunt the back of your mind for a week until I post again.

By the way, I have been writing multiple Hetalia fics (most are not even close to being completed, but I'm pushing 700,000 words on one document, _not_ including this fic) and I kinda figured since it's gonna be a holiday next week (at least in 'Murica), that I could maybe post a cracky, voyeuristic, lemony UKUS one-shot (yes, it's UKUS, because England's a BEAST) next Thursday (if not then, later... just watch for it, it's not really planned). The title was what really made me write the story. When it came to my head, I just had to. So, look for _**It's Called** **'Special'** _ and I'll give a free cookie to anyone who figures out how it's related to Thanksgiving (hint: I'm just shitting you, there is no relation and I bake like England, haha).

Until we meet again~


	77. Bleed Out the Sorrows

**Live, Canada-san~!  
**

Warning: Angst, blood, suicide attempt, RusAme, Nichu, fluff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Bleed Out the Sorrows**

" _Mattie!"_

Ivan's arms went slack around him and Alfred jumped out of them and lunged toward Matthew. The Canadian was sobbing and Alfred snatched up both his bloody wrists. "Oh God, Matt, what did you do?"

Matthew gave a choking sob. "I'm sorry, Al, I'm sorry!"

Alfred's heart was pounding and frantic tears were blurring his vision. He turned around. "Ivan—"

"I'm going," Ivan assured and rushed out of the tent.

Matthew was looking at Alfred, tears running down his face. "I don't want to die, Al. I-I didn't mean it. I saw the blood and… oh God, the blood…"

"Shh, shh, it's okay," Alfred told him, horrified at how fast the blood was flowing. Alfred was naked, and his thighs were warm with it already. "You're going to be okay. Just don't move. Ivan's—"

There were people running toward the tent now and Francis was the first to arrive. He climbed inside and immediately burst into tears. "Matthieu! Oh mon Dieu, qu'est-il arrivé? Tu sainges! Porquoi, pourquoi?"

"Papa, il ne s'arrêttera pas!" Matthew replied shakily as Francis grabbed one of his wrists. "Je… je l'ai fait. Je l'ai fait et je suis désolé, Papa!"

Francis brushed a trembling hand over Matthew's cheek. "Ne dites pas que. Tu n'as rien à être désolé sur." He looked at Alfred. "How long has he been like this?"

Alfred shook his head. "I-I don't know. I left him out in the woods by himself. Oh God, I shouldn't have left him. I should have—"

Ivan then came in followed by Arthur. Others were gathered outside the tent, but Alfred could hear Ludwig's voice telling them to stay back. Arthur didn't ask any questions, just grabbed one of Matthew's wrists and proceeded to wrap it in gauze as tightly as he could, ignoring the burning in his own hands. Alfred got some and tended to the other. Ivan pulled on some pants and wrapped his coat around Alfred, but the American barely noticed.

"I-I feel dizzy," Matthew said, struggling to control the anxiety in his voice, but seeing the blood bloom beneath the bandages was compromising that.

"You lost a lot of blood," Arthur told him, then finished wrapping the gauze. "Lay down."

Matthew did so and Francis laid beside him, in the blood Matthew brought in with him. Alfred stared down at his brother.

"Where's the knife?"

Matthew blinked guiltily up at him. "I… I left it in the woods. I couldn't do it, Al. I wanted to so badly, but as soon as I did I realized how stupid I was." A few more tears slipped out in spite of himself. "I don't want to die. I screwed up."

"I know you didn't, Mattie," Alfred assured, taking one of his brother's blood-sticky hands. "I'm sorry I wasn't there for you. I'm sorry we made you think we wouldn't care if you did that."

"Try not to talk," Arthur instructed, standing. "I'll get him some of the leftovers from tonight. He needs to boost his blood cell counts."

Alfred looked up. "Will he be okay, Artie?"

Arthur stared at him before saying. "I don't know." And he ducked out of the tent.

Francis's heart was pounding. He could lose Matthew. _No._ Not now. He needed him more than anything. He should have made sure Matthew was okay. He should have asked about him. He should have done so much more and now Matthew was bleeding out because he thought his life wasn't worth it anymore. Francis was a horrible brother.

"Why did you never come to me?" Francis asked.

Matthew sniffed. "I-I don't know. I thought no one understood—"

"How can I understand if you do not try to help me understand, petit?" Francis said, hugging him around the waist from behind. "I will always be there for you, Matthieu. You don't have to do this to yourself."

Matthew bit his lip. "I'm sorry."

"Don't you ever be sorry for this," Francis told him firmly. "You did it because you thought you were alone. I'm sorry for making you think you were."

Matthew cried. "Papa—"

Arthur stepped back in, a can of fruit cocktail in his hand, previously heated over the fire. "Eat this."

Matthew nodded and was about to take it when Alfred snatched it up and said, "You shouldn't move. Here." He tipped Matthew's chin up and fed him some.

"Maybe we should ask Jeanne for help," Francis suggested, unthinking. "They may have better supplies—"

"No," Arthur said sternly, sitting down beside them. "We can't let them see one of us injured. It could put us in a dangerous situation."

Francis glared incredulously at him. "But Matthieu is _sick_! I don't care if they see us. He's bleeding, and he needs help!"

Arthur glared. "Listen here, Francis, I wouldn't keep you from doing so if I didn't think these people had some ulterior motive. Go over there and ask for supplies, and by morning all of our blood could be smeared around this camp."

Francis gave him a death glare and Arthur knew he would be sorry for saying what he had later, but for now he had to focus on stemming the flow of blood from Matthew's slit wrists.

"How deep did you cut?" he asked.

Francis balked. "Arthur!"

"It's a question of health!" Arthur snapped back and looked expectantly at Matthew. "Well?"

Matthew swallowed and his eyes stung. "I was determined to get it over with quickly. I… intended to cut deep, but once I saw how fast the blood was coming, I stopped."

"Is it deep, then?"

"Only partly."

Alfred chewed his lip. "Oh, Mattie…"

Arthur was silent for a moment, thinking. And then Ivan said, "He is not passed out. It could not have been that deep." Ivan knew this fact for a reason. Though, of course, when he had done it himself, it had been when he was an immortal nation…

Arthur nodded. "I was just thinking that. We wouldn't be able to stem the bleeding so much if he had hit an artery."

Matthew stiffened. "Are you sure? I can still feel it coming out…"

"Don't think about that," Alfred told him. "Here, just eat." And he fed him some more.

"It will stop with enough prolonged pressure," Arthur said. "Though I wouldn't advise bending your wrists in any way after for a while. You might reopen the scars."

Matthew shivered and examined himself. His arms were sticky and red with blood and so were his pants and some of his coat. The black bandana was still tied around his arm, the eyeholes clearly visible. He felt his heart ache.

"I got blood all over Sadiq's mask," Matthew said piteously. "I ruined it."

Alfred's eyes followed his gaze. "I'm sure he would understand. Now _eat_." He heard the others in front of the tent, questions flying, scrabbling to get in and see what was happening. "Jeez, Vanya, did you wake everyone?"

"Nyet," Ivan replied, sitting cross-legged beside him. "But running out into the camp in nothing but my skin seemed to have attracted their attention well enough."

Everyone could laugh at that, even Matthew. Alfred said, "You're crazy. It's freezing."

" _This_ is what you call freezing?" he scoffed.

"Well," Arthur smirked. "Now we know why Francis was the first one here."

Francis grimaced. "Mon petit was hurt, brittanique âne!"

"Oh calm down," Arthur said. "Matthew's fine now. It was just a joke!"

Francis brooded but did not say anything, only tightening his grip around Matthew.

When Alfred had finished feeding Matthew, he set the can and spoon down and said, "We should all probably spend the night here together. Just in case something… happens."

Matthew stiffened. "I won't cut myself again. I promise, I won't."

"Not that," Alfred said, feeling like an ass. "I mean… in case you take a turn for the worse."

 _Oh, what did I do?_ Matthew thought sadly. _I'm never noticed and when I am I cause a big fuss. I screw everything up. I can't even kill myself right…_

"Vanya," Alfred turned to Ivan. "Can you get Matthew's sleeping bag and bring it in here? Artie, Francis, get yours. I don't want us to be separated tonight."

"Da," And he went off. Arthur left too, but Francis stayed with Matthew. They returned and helped undress Matthew, being careful of his wrists, cleaning him up a bit with a moist rag, and then tucked him into his sleeping bag, positioned between Alfred and Ivan's and Arthur and Francis's. He thanked God it was the one that didn't smell like Sadiq. He didn't think he could take that so soon after what he'd done.

Francis slept with him, curling up to him from behind, and Arthur slept alone. Alfred and Ivan slept together, spooning, and Matthew couldn't bear to look at them as they only reminded him of what he had lost.

 _He's a good man, Al,_ Matthew thought. _Don't let him go like I did. Never let him go._

* * *

The morning dawned, but Yao had been awake far before the sun had risen. The smell of blood had been keeping him up.

"Ani-chan."

Yao jumped and looked around to find Kiku sitting right beside him. "What? Yīnghuā, when did you get here?"

"Ever since I felt you climb out of our sleeping bag."

Yao balked. _Have my senses gone so numb?_

Kiku noticed his shock and gave a little smile. "Do not worry yourself. I am naturally silent. And I…" He seemed to get a bit shy all of a sudden. "I wanted to watch the sun rise with you."

Yao's shock only increased when he felt Kiku's hand cover his. He looked down to confirm it, then back up again, but only to find Kiku was looking away, his cheeks dusted pink, from embarrassment or cold, Yao could not tell.

Yao smiled and leaned over to kiss Kiku's cheek, continuing with his plan to make Kiku open up and trust him. "I love you."

Kiku seemed surprised, and he flinched but his hand did not move from its place. For a moment it appeared as if he would say something, but at the last minute looked away and remained silent. Yao huffed. He had given Kiku everything he was and promised to be and yet the younger man had not returned his love. Perhaps a little, but not completely.

 _I know you love me, Kiku,_ Yao thought. _But why can't you say it? What am I doing wrong?_

"Good," Ludwig's voice made them turn around. Kiku immediately snatched his hand back. "You are up. We need to pack everything up and—"

Yao stood. "What happen last night? Why you not let anyone in that tent?" There has been a trail of blood outside of it before, but now it was mysteriously gone.

Ludwig appeared uncomfortable with that question. "It is none of your concern. An isolated incident that has been contained. That is all."

Yao began to steam. "That is all you mean to tell us?"

Kiku stood along with him and said more calmly, "Yao is right. We are both part of this group. We deserve to know. Trust is key."

Ludwig looked very conflicted, then. "It… it is a very sensitive subject. I do not have the right to disclose such information. If he wants to disclose it, then he will."

"Who?" Yao insisted. "Why? How? _What_?"

Ludwig shook his head. "I am sorry, Yao, but I do not want to cause further complications by telling you without his permission. Let me just say matters are… fragile at the moment." Then he added, "You know what needs to be done."

Yao gaped at him as he walked away and began to follow him, intent on having the issue fully explained to him, but he felt a hand on his shoulder.

"No, Yao-chan," Kiku told him. "We do not want to cause more trouble."

Yao stopped and heaved a sigh. "Whatever happen last night we will know eventually. That much blood mean large wounds. We will know."

It took some convincing for Matthew to leave the tent. The tension in the camp was palpable, and he knew it was because of him.

"Come on out, Mattie," Alfred urged gently. "No one's going to hurt you." _Or I'll pound their face in._

Matthew felt nervous. His wrists were bandaged heavily and he kept pulling his sleeves down to cover them, though he knew there would be a point where he couldn't keep them completely covered. They would all see how stupid he had been. "I-I…"

"Matthieu," Francis crouched down and took Matthew's hands. "I am not going to say I know what you're feeling, because I do not. But you just can't give up. At the last minute you had an attack of conscience, and you are alive. Sadiq would have wanted you to live. He would have wanted the best for you. So, please, show me the eager little boy I met on that shore so many years ago. Show me that he still cares."

Matthew started to tear up and he wiped at his eyes. "I do care, Francis. I've always cared. I was just… blinded for a moment."

Francis smiled and combed Matthew's hair behind his ear with his fingers. "That is all I ever wanted."

Arthur ducked his head in. "Come on. That other group is coming."

Still reluctant, Matthew made his way out into the camp, followed closely by those who had stayed with him in the tent last night. He stared at the ground, hyperaware that everyone was staring at him as if accusing. He rung his hands, but then he remembered that he should move his wrists as little as possible and stopped. He glanced over at Arthur who was staring at the line of cars where the strangers had made their camp, a bandaged hand tucked under his chin. _Is this how Arthur feels?_ It made him feel trapped, helpless, useless. All the emotions he _definitely_ did not need at the moment.

"Hey!"

Jeanne was running toward them, worry in her voice. She looked to Ivan before remembering that Ludwig was the leader and asked him instead, "We heard a commotion last night but didn't want to investigate further in respect of your privacy. Is there anything wrong or that we can help with?"  
Ludwig was very aware of all the eyes on him and he said calmly, "It was nothing. The fire got a little out of hand and…" He stopped. Had the tents been close-knit enough last night when Jeanne and her companions had looked out to hide the fire so that the strangers didn't see he was lying?

But Jeanne's eyes were more than trusting which was surprising in such times. "Oh… oh, well I hope none of you got hurt. Was it bad?"

"Nein," Ludwig said with a tight smile. "Once we dumped some snow on it, the problem was contained."

Throughout all this, Matthew hid halfway behind Francis, anxiously pulling his sleeves down over his bandaged wrists. He still felt weak and a little light-headed, but he didn't want to die now because Jeanne would see that Ludwig had lied to her.

Jeanne nodded. "Oh, well that's good to hear." Then she added, "We're getting ready to head out. If you guys can pack up, we can fit your bags in the trunks and drive some more."

Ludwig hesitated. He didn't like the idea of being separated from his group and at that in such an entrapping space. But Jeanne was smiling at him expectantly and, really, it did make more sense to travel by car than by foot… "Okay. We will be ready soon."

"Great," Jeanne said, smiling overly much. "Come over when you're ready. We also have some breakfast for you guys." And she was off.

"Ve, I get the feeling she wants us to like her a lot."

Ludwig ignored everyone balking at Feliciano's rare perceptiveness and frowned as he watched Jeanne walked off, arms crossed. "I am not so sure about her. We should avoid speaking to them as much as possible."

Ivan was about to reinstate his earlier claim that he had in fact searched Jeanne's mind for deceptive qualities, but Feliciano frowned. "Ve, that would be rude! They are giving us food and a ride."

"There will be time for thanking later," Ludwig told him firmly. _Like when we find out more about them._ "Get packing!"

* * *

Gilbert kept looking over his shoulder. And now it was becoming quite obvious.

When Gilbert did so for the millionth time, Lovino elbowed him in the ribs. "Ouch," the Prussian hissed. "What was that for?"

"Stop looking so fucking much," Lovino growled back, staring ahead so that he didn't seem suspicious. "They're going to see you."

Gilbert huffed and uncomfortably settled back down into his seat, crossing his arms. "It's not my fault I'm concerned…"

Lovino rolled his eyes at his stubbornness, but he did have a point. They were riding in the second van along with Yao and Kiku, who had been deathly silent the whole time. Feliciano was traveling with Ludwig in the leading truck and as much as Lovino insisted Ludwig and Gilbert go together this time, Feliciano refused. The other van followed closely behind. And so now here they were, sitting in a cramped space in awkward silence with Gilbert's paranoia gnawing at him.

Their driver was not someone they knew. He was ebony and well built (a shit-brickhouse was how Lovino would describe him) and it didn't help that he kept glancing to the backseat through the rearview mirror every minute or so. Lovino swallowed.

"So…" he began and everyone jumped. His voice was a shock to the silence. "Um, driver, w-what is your name… sir?"

Gilbert flashed him a glare. Only moments before he had been scolded for looking over his shoulder and now Lovino was _communicating_ with the guy? Gilbert _knew_ he was more awesome than anybody, but this driver… DAMN. It was a close call. _Close._

The man glanced up at him through the mirror, but was otherwise silent.

Lovino frowned. "Sir?"

They all jumped when the man in the passenger's seat turned around to address them. He was the youngest of the group, around sixteen, with a brown warhawk, snakebites, and torn jeans. To say the least, he was just a smidge less intimidating than the guy sitting next to him. "He speaks, haha! Thought you were mute for a second there. To cut down on the awkwardness going on here, I'm Nate. That walking black mountain over there is Marvin. He doesn't talk much."

"Hmph," grunted Marvin.

"Marvin?" Gilbert muttered a little too loudly, trying to hold down a snicker, but Lovino elbowed him again, in the stomach this time, and he gagged a bit.

"So, um, where are you guys headed?" Lovino continued, ignoring Gilbert's glare.

"Gerald's sister's house in Illinois," Nate replied. "Oh, that's the old fat guy who's driving the truck. His brother-in-law is a doomsday prepper and once Ger got him to stop saying how stupid we were for not preparing too, we got him to agree to us hiding out there for a while. He has a bunker, food stores, tons of weapons, and _everything_! Damn, I wish I coulda done the same thing but my 'rents were total bummers and sent me away to military school, haha!"

Lovino swallowed. "Yes, how unfortunate… d-did you _escape_ from the school?"

"Tried," Nate admitted. "But they got dogs and electric fences and shit, and I didn't like the idea of getting snuffed that way. Sure, it _did_ seem easier when I actually snuffed something, but, hey, that only lasts so long, y'know?" He smiled and his snakebites stretched.

Lovino was trembling now. Why oh why did they have to choose _this_ van? "U-um…"

Nate sensed his fear and his expression turned serious. "But don't take that the wrong way. It's better you have me with you than some chickenshit pussy. Marvin and I eat those bros for breakfast, right Marv?"

"Hmph," grunted Marvin.

"Oh," Lovino said, his voice small. "But the pussies deserved it… right?"

"Sure they did!" Nate said a little too enthusiastically. "They were pussies. Oh, hey, I think we're stopping. Time to stretch our legs. Damn, I hated military school…"

And thank God for that. At least Nate would be too busy brooding about that school than contemplating where exactly Lovino fell on his pussy-meter.

* * *

Translations:

 _qu'est-il arrivé? Tu sainges!_ -What happened? You're bleeding!

 _il ne s'arrêttera pas_ -It won't stop

 _Je l'ai fait et je suis désolé_ -I did it, and I'm sorry

 _Ne dites pas que. Tu n'as rien à être désolé sur_ -Don't say that. You have nothing to be sorry about.

 _brittanique âne_ -British ass

 _Ani-chan_ -Big brother

A Word From the Writer: Kinda went overboard on the French here, sorry. Just so much drama the dialogue couldn't be written in English! And there are some things I'm a little unsure about here with the grammar and everything. This was written sometime during the summer when my mind was all fluffy so I may have forgotten some of my French. That being said, don't hesitate to inform me about errors. As well as with the Japanese... fuck, I wanna learn Japanese so bad, and then German, and maybe Russian... Goddammit, why was I not taught all these things when I was younger and my brain was a fucking sponge?

Aside from the mediocre American education system, yay, Canada didn't die! Nah, I wouldn't kill him now. That'd be too easy! Yup, he'll just have to go on and suffer without Sadiq, poor unlucky guy. Anyway, Canada's just too good a character to kill. Besides, I want to harden him up in time for the end. Prelude to a badass Canada. Oh yeah. It's gonna happen, and it will be EPIC.

Jk, I don't really know how it's gonna be. I haven't written it yet, and my fingers sometimes seem to have a mind of their own when typing...


	78. Into the Storm

**_Now_ we're getting somewhere.  
**

Warning: Angst, insults, Nichu, some GerIta, not really much to worry about here actually :|

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Into the Storm**

Francis was grateful to get out of the van and walk around a bit, mostly to check where they were.

Right. Still in the middle of nowhere. But at least there were some road signs. He was currently examining one. Arthur joined him.

"Laramie, three miles. Cheyenne, fifty-three miles," the Briton read aloud. His eyes traveled to a blue sign further down that read, "Laramie Food: McDonald's, Jack-in-the-Box, Wendy's, Cracker Barrel—you know, I would even go for Alfred's deplorable fast food at this point if I could."

Francis was too tired to laugh. "I do not know. It may do us more harm than good. Le stomach cramps and le diarrhea would not exactly help us."

"You've got a point," Arthur said. "But it beats eating out of a can. Everything tastes like cheap tin."

"Thank cheapskate businesses for that."

"Hmn," Arthur hummed wearily. "How long have we been on the road?"

"Four hours."

"Damn, it feels like it's been forever."

"Oh no," They turned to see Alfred gaping up at the signs.

"What is it?" Arthur asked. "Have a craving for one of the local troughs listed?"

Alfred ignored the last comment and said, "Cheyenne. Shit, that's the capital. It's gonna be big. Less populated than most other capitals, but still. It might still have a bunch of people."

"We have to go there."

They all jumped as one of the other group joined them. He was the one with the baseball cap and thick glasses with a slightly-Asian profile. What was his name? Calvin? Curtis? "Sorry for intruding." He put his hands in his pockets, looking at the ground and kicking a snowbank. "I just heard you guys talking and I thought I should answer you, since I know where we're going and all…"

"So," Francis said. "We're going through it?"

The man nodded. "Yeah. I know it's big and all, but we gotta stick with route 80. We don't have a map—we lost our old one—and the GPS isn't working. If we get lost, we might never be able to get to Illinois."

Alfred frowned. "That's crazy, Carson."

"Carter, actually," the man corrected. "Carter Huang."

"Carter," Alfred corrected. "You can't be serious. Have you never been through towns since before the Uprising? Even the small, deserted ones are potential death traps. We've been through enough of those. The whole reason we had those Organization men on our tail when you picked us up was _because_ we decided to go into a town."

Carter looked a little apprehensive then. "I… it's all Gerald's decision. He's the leader, mostly because he's the only one who knows the way. The rest of us have never been far from the west coast, but Gerald says he's driven through Cheyenne to his sister's before and it's relatively docile."

"'Relatively'?" Arthur parroted. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"That he's not confident in his words," Francis accused. "Did you know Gerald before the Uprising?"

"N-no, but that's not the poi—"

"That's entirely the point, man!" Alfred snapped. "How do you know if you can trust him? Did you just waltz up to anyone who had a car and say 'Hey, can I catch a ride?' 'Cause if you did, I dunno how you ever made it this far."

Carter stared at them and swallowed. "I… there… there's a bunch of you guys and most of you sound foreign. How in the hell did you end up traveling together anyway?"

All of them shut there mouths and stared back. Just like that, they had been cornered by a simple question. Damn, they all needed to discuss how to answer these kinds of things without seeming suspicious.

Luckily, Jeanne was calling them over. "Hey, guys, get over here! We're having lunch!"

Carter's eyes darted to the ground again and his hands slinked back into his pockets as they all followed him back to the parked vehicles.

Lunch was awkwardly silent, but at least they didn't have the poor experience of eating out of a can again.

"Um, so…" Alfred began. "Where did you get this food anyway?" It really was not typical survival food. Some sausages and mushrooms… though the mushrooms seemed to fit the profile enough. They had built a small fire and were roasting them over it. He sure hoped the smoke wouldn't carry, though thankfully there wasn't much wind.

Everyone looked up, but Gerald was quick to answer, "We've been taking out Organization camps from southern California to here. These are the spoils of the most recent one."

"Which mean you don't have much left," Yao predicted.

Gerald was silent for a moment, then sighed. "Yeah. We would have had more if it was just us, but we figured you all would like a nice meal devoid of a can."

"Ve, we really appreciate it!"

Jeanne smiled. "Aren't you a sweet thing? Can I have him? Honestly."

Feliciano latched onto Ludwig's arm. "Sorry, ve, I'm taken."

Jeanne blinked for a moment, studying the blush crawling across Ludwig's cheeks before smiling again. "Good for you, honey." Though there was a note of longing in her voice.

Everyone sensed it and Ivan cleared his throat to break the silence. "Cheyenne. What is plan?"

Gerald looked up at him and it was clear that he was intimidated into responding immediately, even though he really had nothing in mind yet to say. "That! Oh, um… I've been through it before. It's not as populated as other places. And we'll not go through it, only pass it. I doubt there will be anyone on the interstate that will confront us."

"What about petrol?" Arthur asked. "Do you have enough to take us far enough away from it?"

Gerald thought for a moment. "Well, my truck has half a tank, but that'll last us well past it. Jeanne?"

"Hmm, a little less than that."

"Marvin?"

Gilbert snickered again and Lovino pinched him on the ear this time.

"Hmph."

"He means to say the same as Jeanne," Nate replied for him, his snakebite piercings stretching again as he smiled. "But I'm sure you could push it the rest of the way if we run out, right bro?"

"Hmph."

Nate chuckled and gave Marvin a playful punch to the arm. The muscle didn't even ripple from the impact. "Haha, I always crack you up."

Ludwig and the rest of his group just stared. Gilbert leaned over and whispered to Lovino, "I didn't think boulders could laugh."

Lovino was close to pissing his pants just looking at Marvin. "He didn't."

They finished up their lunch (which had them all feeling just a little bit happier) and piled back into the vehicles again. Alfred sniggered when Ivan got in and the van lowered. But then Ivan pulled him in and the van dropped twice as low. It was obvious that Ivan was trying to hold back a smile, but when Alfred mouthed 'no sex' that seemed to sober him a bit.

* * *

Matthew sat between Francis and Alfred, eyes trained on the scenery outside to keep his mind off other more… depressing things. But there wasn't much to see. Just white. It seemed almost sad.

Francis grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Matthew didn't bother looking at him. The Frenchman did it so often now he barely flinched.

"Things will get better, petit."

"Things will get worse before they get better," Matthew said tonelessly and Francis was speechless. He couldn't deny that it was nearly true.

Arthur was zoning in and out as he stared out the window. It was a miracle that the roads hadn't been snowed in, though he was pretty sure a time would come when cars would be of no use to them without plows. They needed to get one if they were to continue. There was no way they were ever going to escape this snow if they kept north…

His eyes snapped back open when he realized his head had dropped to Francis's shoulder. The Frenchman looked at him, not seeming to mind. "Dormes, cher," he murmured. "You need it."

Arthur did indeed need it. He had barely caught up on sleep since his nightmares because his hands had been bothering him so much. They burned like hell. But, for now, they seemed cold enough to emit only a dull throb. He glanced once more at their driver, Jeanne, before putting his head on Francis's shoulder again and closing his eyes.

Arthur was woken when he felt the vehicle speed up. He sat up straight, making his vision go black for a bit, afraid that they were going to endure some sort of ambush.

"We're about to go past Cheyenne," Alfred told him, never taking his eyes off the buildings, looking like black sentinals against the iron sky, in the distance. Alfred's hand was on Ivan's knee, fingers digging in gradually harder.

Ivan winced. "Relax, Alfred. We are only going past it, not through it. You said it yourself."

"Stop that," Francis snapped. "You are making everyone nervous."

By 'everyone' Matthew knew Francis meant him. "I'm not nervous,"

Everyone went silent for a moment. Matthew had barely spoken that day.

Then the buildings got closer and closer and—

"Go faster," Alfred urged. "Come on. There are no cops to catch you now. Just go as fast as you can so we can get the fuck away from here."

"I can only go as fast as Gerald," Jeanne replied and brought her eyes back to the rear of the truck they were tailing.

"Pass him, then," Alfred urged. "He'll get the message. If he knows the way, he'll go faster to get back in front, right?"

"Alfred," Arthur sighed. "I doubt anyone could catch us going this fast anyway."

"There could be Organization members watching the roads," Alfred said. "They could have cars of their own and give chase."

"If we go faster we will attract even more attention," Francis pointed out. "Just keep going at the same pace and if we see someone following us, we can deal with them then."

But no one did see them. They passed right by the city, and, somehow, Alfred felt more uncomfortable than reassured.

* * *

"Hmph," grunted Marvin.

"What…? Oh." Nate turned around to look at them. "Marvin says we're running out of gas."

"What!" Lovino exclaimed. "Why the fuck didn't we stop for some earlier?!"

"Chill, bro," Nate said. "We siphoned some gas from every abandoned car we've come across. We'll have at least another quarter tank."

"That will barely get us a thirty miles into the state!" Gilbert said.

"We'll siphon some more gas, then," Nate shrugged. "No biggie,"

"Yeah," Lovino scoffed. "If we happen to find another fucking car in the middle of fucking _nowhere_!"

"There'll be towns coming along," Nate assured. "There are bound to be lines of cars that had been trying to get out before people just abandoned them. It's the same in every state we've been through."

"People _live_ out here?" Lovino frowned, scanning the white, barren landscape. "Yeah, right."

Winter leeched all color out of everything and it only made their situation worse. A storm was gathering ahead of them and it wasn't the rebuilding of the government by cold Organization members. It was a real storm, a crowd of dark thunderheads cresting the horizon and promising a new bout of misery and hardship.

"Hmph," grunted Marvin.

"I know," Nate replied. "But where will we find one?"

"Find what?" Yao asked.

"A snow plow," Nate sighed. "We knew we'd need one eventually, but we haven't seen a damn one of them since we got on the road. Hopefully we'll have a better chance at finding one up here."

"And if we do not?"

Everyone stared. Kiku had not said much since they had all first piled into the van.

Nate shrugged. "Then we'll just have to wing it."

Gilbert and Lovino eyed each other just then, and they both knew they were thinking the same thing: they would not be able to survive another week of trudging through the snow and the cold. Not all of them. Gilbert took his hand and brushed his thumb over it. Lovino wanted to kiss him so much right then, tell him that he would stay with him for as long as he could. But he could only squeeze back, and that conveyed everything.

* * *

Gerald huffed as the tires caught. He pressed the gas further, but the wheels only spun, stuck in a dense clump of snow. He stopped the truck and put it in park, turning to address his passengers.

"Welp, I knew this would happen eventually."

Ludwig frowned. "We are stuck."

"Yeah."

Ludwig sighed wearily. He'd known ever since he saw the truck that it wouldn't make it far in such harsh weather conditions without aid. Since first they hit snow, he had been predicting how long it would be until they could go no further. He had been correct.

"We need a snow plow," Ludwig suggested.

"We need more gas, too," Gerald shook his head. "We should probably turn the engine off to conserve fuel."

"Ja," Ludwig replied. "We have endured snow before. But you and Feliciano can stay in here to keep out of the wind."

Gerald blinked. "You're not?"

"Nein," Ludwig moved over slowly, trying not to wake Feliciano who had been dozing on his shoulder. He softly set the Italian down in the seat and looked at Gerald. "I will talk to the others. But we cannot just stay here. When that storm comes, we will be snowed in for the rest of the winter."

Gerald unlocked the door and Ludwig opened it, getting a harsh blast of freezing air the second he did so. He got out quickly so as not to wake Feliciano and walked back to check on the rest of his group. He had forgotten how rough the flatlands really were. There were no trees, no buildings, nothing to break the wind, and he was buffeted around quite aggressively before he arrived at the first van.

Jeanne cracked the window. "Something wrong?"

"Out," Ludwig croaked. "I will tell you."

Everyone exited the vehicle, Jeanne turning it off and Carter running back against the icy gusts to tell the other van to do the same. Once they were all gathered, shivering and huddled together, Ludwig began, "We cannot get past the snow and we are getting low on fuel. In order to move forward, we must find a snow plow and more gasoline."

"Dude, look around," Alfred's teeth were chattering as he hugged himself and jumped from foot to foot to keep warm. "There's nothing out here and, trust me, it'll be pretty much like this until we reach suburban Illinois."

"There has to be some sort of vehicle out here somewhere," Arthur said hopefully. "Assuming others would also run out of fuel."

"You're suggesting we go out there and look?" Lovino balked. "With _that_ storm brewing? You're fucking crazy."

"I will go," Ivan volunteered.

"No," Alfred tugged on his sleeve and shot him a fierce glare. "No, absolutely fucking not. You're not going out there."

Ivan frowned down at him. "I would be the first pick to go out anywhere in the snow. This is spring to me!"

"Good," Ludwig said. "I will be going as well. Anyone else—"

"Where is Feli?" Lovino shot daggers at Ludwig.

Ludwig's brows came together. "In the van—"

"And you're just going to leave without telling him?" Lovino snapped. "You better be good to my fratello, bastard. If you're going, tell him."

"So he can worry about me?" Ludwig flashed back. "So he can get so worked up he cries?"

"So you can say goodbye, dammit," Lovino growled, his voice trembling from the cold and his breaths coming in a pale mist.

Ludwig blinked at him, then cleared his throat before continuing, "Right, now it will be me, Ivan—"

"You asshole," Lovino accused. "You don't take him seriously, do you?"

Ludwig shook his head. "Lovino—"

"Feli fucking loves you," Lovino continued, his voice growing louder. "He told me so. It's not just some damn puppy love like you seem to think it is. You don't think he's fucking mature enough for that, but he is. A bastard like you doesn't deserve someone like him!"

Gilbert balked. "Lovino, cal—"

Lovino pointed stiffly at him. "Stay out of this," he barked, and Gilbert, wisely, was quiet.

Ludwig swallowed when he realized everyone was staring at him. "Th-this… we are wasting time talking about this…"

Lovino rounded on him again. "Oh, now it's a waste of time? Well, excuse my fratello for wasting your fucking _precious_ time!"

Ludwig couldn't believe how fast everything had spiraled out of control. Out of his grasp. But he was angered by Lovino's accusations and needed to address them to avoid future conflict. "I do love, Feliciano!" he shouted and everything seemed impossibly quieter. Ludwig cleared his throat and said a little more softly, "I love him and I would do anything for him. How dare you accuse me of abusing our relationship?"

Lovino appeared sober enough, but he still bit back, "Then don't fucking run off and leave him wondering why you never bothered to say goodbye if you don't ever come back."

Ludwig didn't like to give in to anything. It made him feel weak, and weakness was the product of a lack of self control. Admitting he was wrong was far worse, especially when it was Lovino who was righting him. He took a deep breath and said, "He is sleeping. That should not be an excuse, but it was my initial reaction to let him rest. I suppose I was impatient to start looking for the needed supplies so that we can move on for our own safety." _I put the group before Feli._ But that part shamed him too much to say aloud. "And I am sorry."

Lovino seemed satisfied (for once) and tried to hold down a smirk. He had won an argument with Ludwig. A feat for the record books… if there were still any that weren't a pile of ashes, that was.

Ludwig tried to make it seem like he didn't feel uncomfortable, but the feeling was already palpable. "Ahem, now… me, Ivan, we will need more."

"I'll go," Alfred said.

Ivan frowned. "Nyet, you will freeze."

"Oh, right," Alfred nodded. "Yeah, I guess I better stay here. Thanks for caring, babe. Shame I couldn't go. Really, it is." And Alfred kissed Ivan on the cheek and made his way back to the vehicle. Ivan stared after him and snorted.

"Stupid prat," Arthur grumbled and pulled his collar tighter around him and sighed, "I'll go, then." When Francis opened his mouth to protest, Arthur snapped, "And don't you start. You need to stay here with Matthew."

"Right," Ludwig said. "Me, Ivan, Arthur…"

"You know it'll be an awesomely successful trip with me along, kesesese!"

Ludwig sighed wearily. Now he had to babysit his brother. "All right, four will be enough—"

"I want to go, too," Matthew said quietly, his voice barely heard over the wind. He tugged at his sleeves.

Francis was immediately at his side. "Non, non, petit, you are injured and should not be moving around much. You will not be of much help and you will hurt yourself further."

Matthew's face took on a sad hue. "Oh…" _I'm going to disappear again. And there's nothing I can do about it._

Francis didn't sense his distraught. He was too concerned with leading Matthew back to one of the vans, but not before giving Arthur's hand a squeeze and saying a brief goodbye.

Kiku was just thinking that he was starting to not feel his face when Yao leaned over, muttered, "I love you, yīnghuā," and kissing him on the cheek. Kiku flinched, not expecting the gesture, and he felt his face grow warmer when he realized they were very much being watched. At least his face heating up wasn't exactly a bad thing. Yao let go of his hand.

"I want to go as well," Yao offered, and Kiku, for one of the first times in life, felt his heart jump into his throat for someone else. His mind urged him to grab his hand and tell him no, but his conscience reminded him that he couldn't stop Yao anyway and he stayed silent.

Yao was disappointed, but not discouraged. He would get through to Kiku eventually—he hoped. "Being confined for so long has unsettled me."

Ludwig nodded. "Right, let's grab a couple of packs and set off. That storm looks like it'll be here before long."

* * *

Translate:

 _petit_ -little one

 _yīnghuā_ -cherry blossom

A Word From the Writer: So... okay, I know this seems sorta choppy, but it was kinda difficult trying to go between multiple vehicles at once and... yeah. So, our OCs finally have names! Gerald, Marvin, Nate, Carter, and Jeanne. And it figures that they run out of gas as soon as they hitch a ride (and just as a storm is coming in at that), but I never said I'd let them rest, right? RIGHT?

Nice move on America's part, but honestly I'd be the same. I'm all stick and bones; I could wear three layers of clothing and still be cold in my own house. America may have lost some weight throughout this whole ordeal, but... yeah, hibernation mode will have to come later. And I am liking this whole Nichu thing. Japan is absolutely frickin' adorkable, I just ajhdsfhjdfrutujf.

Anywho, I'm a little drained and cooky, and I am kinda procrastinating on a stop motion project I've been meaning to do and... I'm just a big procrastinator, y'all. I've had senior-itis since junior year and it's definitely not going away any time soon. But at the same time I'm excited because I had a new story idea! But it's not for Hetalia, sorry. Just a little sci-fi thing I'm getting into. But I'm gonna finish this one! (I'm already almost to the big battle scene and I love writing action and gore and guts and drama and... unf. Okay, I'm just waffling on, but you get the point... right?-say you do, say it, say it-).

The shitstorm is coming... SOON.


	79. The Eyes That Watch the Children

**And... of course something goes wrong. Can you guess who walks into danger?  
**

Warning: Angst, suspicion, dangerous situation, poking fun at China.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**The Eyes That Watch the Children**

Nate insisted on coming, and when he was accepted along, Marvin was unceremoniously invited as well. Which was just great. But at least Marvin and Ivan were fairly matched.

Arthur was walking beside Ivan now, and he knew the man wasn't happy about it. Following their little spat in the woods less than a day ago, the Russian had been quite stony towards him. Arthur knew that he had gone way too far when he brought up Ivan's past, but he was just so angry… well, more frightened than angry. Ivan had been jeopardizing the whole group's safety by trusting Jeanne, despite him claiming to have sufficiently probed her mind. But he felt he had to resolve any issues with him, Ivan being so close to Alfred.

"Wise of you, not using magic to clear the road," Arthur said out of the blue.

Ivan did not look down at him. He was not quite happy with Arthur at the moment and wasn't about to relinquish his current dislike of him for petty conversation. "Da, I knew it would not help much. Not only would it drain me significantly, but I could only clear so much snow before being unable to do so anymore, which would only comprise of a mile or so. Even that at the cost of my valuable energy." He frowned and flexed his hands, hating this feeling. This weak, _human_ feeling. His heart had started beating recently and he felt fairly warmer, and emotions manipulated his mind more so now than before. He was beginning to understand why the world was like it was currently. "Most of my magical might went with the loss of my title as a country. I feel… exposed. I hate it." _More than anything._ All those times he was weak and had been unable to defend himself was his ultimate bane. He hid behind his strength, because that was what mattered in the end. This end, though, wasn't at all what he had been expecting. No one had been expecting _this_.

Arthur sensed his unease and noted his tone. "I loathe it as well. I feel like anything could kill me now. I don't know how humans live with it, feeling as if they're walking a wire and every gust of wind could send them plummeting. But I suppose they never think about that."

"Humans are resilient," Ivan said. _I knew better than anybody that they are._

Arthur took a deep lungful of icy air and shivered. He pulled his collar up to his nose. "Yes, but they're stupid. I feel stupid just thinking as one."

"They are more selfish than stupid," Ivan told him. "They view life within a limited scope of themselves and close friends and family, not the world. They barely even consider it."

"I won't lose that," Arthur promised.

They had trekked a few good miles down the road, the only sign that some sort of civilization had been established somewhere among the barren white hills being the hard road under their feet. They shuffled along, ankle deep in snow, watching the ground to make sure they didn't go off track and lose the road. Behind them, the vehicles had long disappeared despite their prominent coloration, and with them their group, the rest of the sane world.

"I feel like we're going into the maelstrom," Gilbert told Ludwig, studying the mounting thunderheads. He was so pale, he was practically disappearing into the landscape. At least his red eyes stood out. "Heh, someone should hum a funeral march…"

Ludwig punched him on the arm and Gilbert yelped. "Shut up. This is no joking matter."

Gilbert glared and rubbed his arm. "Jeez, stop being so uptight. I am awesome at finding things. We will get what we need and be back in no time, kesesese!"

"You two so busy arguing that you not see!" Yao shouted.

Both men turned to him. "See what?" Ludwig asked.

Yao pointed. "There!"

They all followed his motions and found themselves staring at a…

"A tractor?" Nate frowned. "Who the fuck would try to escape in that? It doesn't go very fast…"

"Who the hell cares?" Arthur flashed. He didn't much care for the reform school brat from all the crap he had been talking on the way. "It's here and I'm sure it has some petrol and… is that a snow plow? Wait a minute…" His gaze followed a line of white lumps sitting just behind the half buried tractor. "That tractor wasn't just clearing the road for itself, there were people _following_ it!"

"Hmph," grunted Marvin.

"Marv agrees," Nate translated.

"Well, splendid," Arthur said almost flatly before he remembered how scrawny he was compared to Marvin and changed his tone. "We'd better get moving, then, before that storm arrives. Come on."

The wind buffeted them all as they made their way toward the line of hidden cars. Arthur was at the head of them, impatient to get back to the group. He still didn't trust Gerald and his companions, but at least they had the two who looked to be the biggest threat with them. Not that that was entirely a good thing, but still.

Yao was anxious to get going too. He could already feel the wind picking up, gusting from the direction of the approaching clouds with considerable force and chill. He was so busy studying the storm brewing in the distance that he wasn't watching where he was walking and his shoe caught on something. Yao gave a startled grunt and fell to his knees, snow wetting his pants, looking back to see just what had tripped him up.

"Yao," Ivan was behind him and picked up his pace to reach him. "Are you all righ—?"

Yao's eyes lifted from the ground, now revealed from his feet brushing away the snow, then peered up at Ivan. They both had the same thought at once, but Ivan was the first one to shout, "Everyone stop! There is something—"

But Ivan had spoken too late. Just when Arthur looked up to see what it was that Ivan was getting so worked up about, he took another step and his foot plunged down into the snow and just kept going.

Yao's foot had been caught in a small crevice and, from his position in the snow, he could now see where it led. The whiteness of the landscape had hidden a massive crack, but luckily for Yao, he had stumbled across only the beginnings of it. His eyes traced the crack, stopping at its widest point. This wasn't a crack, it was a ravine. And Arthur was falling through the widest part of it.

"Shit!" Arthur managed to yell before his leg sank rapidly down into nothing. He didn't have time to move his other leg to stop his fall and it painfully scraped down the lip of the rough stone. Arthur cried out, hands scrabbling for purchase, but the stone was slippery with snow. His legs flailed in the empty space below him, searching for footholds, but found none. His fingers were numb from his damp gloves and he was slipping. "A-ah, no!" Arthur screamed, his heart dropping into his stomach when his head dipped below the outcropping of rock.

His hands were burning with his past wounds and the effort to hold him up. His arms shook and threatened to give out. Then he felt hands curl around his wrists. He looked up.

Ivan and Marvin were staring at each other, both having grabbed him at the same time. After getting over their initial shock, they eased Arthur up through the crevice and out onto the snowy surface.

Arthur remained hunched over in the snow, catching his breath and waiting for his rapid heartbeat to subside. Suddenly everyone was standing around him.

"Hmph."

"Marv says he can carry you if you're hurt," Nate said.

"No, that's quite all right." Arthur shook his head, standing slowly and feeling what would soon be a prominent bruise forming in his thigh. "I-I can walk. Just a little slip."

"Damn, that's deep!" Gilbert exclaimed, studying the ravine, then he looked up and corrected, "Not whatever Marvin said. The drop down this thing would have been pretty bad!"

"Hmmmph," grunted Marvin irately.

"Hey, man, chill out," Gilbert said. "Your offer was awesome, if not a little sappy."

"Hmmmrrrgh."

"Again, no offense!"

"Shut up and get away from there." Ludwig practically yanked him. "I don't want to waste time trying to fish you out of there when we could be getting needed supplies."

Gilbert frowned. "Your concern for me is overwhelming, West," he deadpanned.

Ludwig ignored him. "Are you okay, Arthur?"

"I'm fine," Arthur insisted. _Lady Luck doesn't favor me, it seems. Someone up there (or down) must have it out for me, because I seem to stumble into everything dangerous… what will it be next, a safe dropping on my head?_ He sighed. "Let's just get going. Yao, do you have the siphon?"

Yao held up the tube. "Shì."

He turned to address Ivan, but he already had his shovel out.

"Should I go ahead, comrade?" the Russian asked with a smile.

Arthur smiled back. "You'd better."

* * *

They decided they had gone far enough to make a fire without others seeing the smoke. Tinder was hard to come by, and what little they could find they had to wait for the wind to dry before even trying to set light to it.

When they finally did get a spark (after an hour of trying), they could see dark figures coming up the road.

Alfred had come out of the van for the food, but he was quickly staring in the direction of the approaching people.

"They're back," he announced.

"I know," Kiku told him. He was huddled up beside a front tire, taking shelter from the wind. "I was assigned watch."

"Oh yeah," Alfred said, blinking. "I forgot."

"Ve, do you think they found anything?" Feliciano asked no one in particular. "I hope so. I don't want to be caught in a storm."

"Che, those dumbasses weren't gone for long. If they gave up after only this long, I'm going to kick their frozen asses," Lovino grumbled, stomach rumbling as he fished cans of food out of a pack, setting them in a line around the fire.

Carter took a can and opened it, dumping the contents into a pot. "God, I hope they have at least _something_."

Jeanne sighed and set the pot on the fire. "I knew this area was going to be the worst. Nothing but piss-ant towns for miles…"

"Hey!" Alfred exclaimed, offended. Then he settled, "Meh, you're right."

A van door slid open and Francis stuck his head out, smiling hopefully. "They're back."

"Yeah," Alfred said. "How's Mattie?"

"Asleep," Francis told him, jumping out and closing the door softly. "He didn't want to, but I made him—hey, amis!" He waved his arms, giving a questioning thumbs up. It took a minute for the others to respond, but he eventually got a confirming thumbs up from… who was that, Ivan?

"They found something," Kiku said, standing.

The group of scouts was practically attacked when they arrived at their little line of vehicles. They were pushed off and were presented with few good gallons of gasoline.

Gerald stared at it in awe. "How did you manage to get so much?"

"Not easily, I'll tell you," Arthur said, leaning on a van and smacking his lips. "Dammit, this taste won't come off my tongue for some time…" He caught Francis leering and he knew the man was just dying to say something perverted. He gave him the finger.

"Ja, it tastes like I've rimmed an engine, kesesese!"

Ludwig frowned in disapproval. "Shut up before I personally strap you to the roof of a van."

"I'll help you," Lovino said, glaring at Gilbert. The Prussian stopped laughing.

"Okay," Yao began. "Let's get this into the tank…" He picked up a gallon jug and headed over. But just as soon as he was about to pour it in, it was snatched from his hand.

He whirled around to see Nate hefting it and nudging him out of the way. "Step aside, old man, wouldn't want you to hurt yourself. I didn't get these guns bench pressing pillows." He gave a shit-eating grin and commenced the pouring.

Everyone started snickering… everyone that knew how truly old Yao was, anyway. "Old?!" Yao exclaimed, then rounded on the others. "Stop laughing! I just have experience!"

Nate finished pouring and said sheepishly, "Ah, crap. I'm sorry, I've been hanging out with so many dudes lately, it's just second nature. I didn't mean to call you 'man', shorty, heheh."

The snickers grew into full-blown laughter. "I'm not a girl!" Yao shouted, shocked.

Nate looked confused and surprised at the same time. "What… whoa, wait, man, you're not a chick?"

"We've confirmed that long before, bud!" Alfred laughed, tears in his eyes. "Hey, Yao, get in the kitchen and make me a sammich!"

Yao wrinkled his nose. "What is 'sammich'? Another disgusting invention of yours? Ai-ya…"

"Dude!" Alfred's stomach was cramping from laughing so hard. "You even complain like a girl!"

Jeanne rolled her eyes and crossed her arms. "Ugh, men are all the same…"

"Ouais," Francis sniggered. "Except for Yao!"

Yao stopped shouting and resorted to just standing there, face red and glaring. He crossed his arms and tapped his foot. "Done yet?"

Kiku felt guilty for laughing, but he said nonetheless, "Do not be offended, Yao. We are only joking…"

"How many times you joke before it can be considered offensive?" Yao snapped.

Ludwig was laughing a little, but he was trying to hide it. He never laughed, but that had been too much. He righted himself and cleared his throat. "Ja, that is enough. We need to get the tanks filled as much as we can and leave before this storm comes through."

Alfred was still catching his breath. "Don't… ha, don't let Yao drive. He'll be terrible!"

Yao retreated to a van and slammed the door shut to drown out their raucous laughing.

* * *

They barely made it to Pine Bluffs, which was about thirty minutes away. At that point, they had almost run out of gas, and they pulled into town warily. Everyone was awake in all the vehicles, on the lookout for any signs of life.

Pine Bluffs wasn't a large town, Alfred explained. It was one of the first towns in Wyoming, being so close to the eastern border, and began as a popular cattle-shipping point on the Union Pacific and soon became the largest. There were barely 1,100 people residing in the town, but that didn't put them all at ease. Being isolated, some residents might have not been persuaded to leave. On the other hand, they were the first city travelers coming in from out of state would encounter on route eighty and may not be entirely safe.

"Not many people would be on the roads after this long without provisions," Arthur pointed out.

"Yeah," Alfred agreed. "But I'm damn sure the Organization has taken most of that for themselves. How do you think they plan to spread their influence?"

Ivan hated how negative Alfred had become. Every little building—whether it be a small neighborhood that they could pass through in the blink of an eye, a degraded farm, or just a lonely, abandoned wind pump—the American would always stiffen, eyes darting around the landscape outside, looking for potential dangers. He was so uptight, and everything they passed that gave even the slightest indication of civilization he would announce as a potential hideout for mobs or the Organization. Ivan supposed it was partly because Alfred's face was plastered all over the country and he had a fairly hefty bounty on his head, but he needed to relax a bit and let Ivan be uptight for him. After all, that was what he had promised.

Ivan sighed and stared out the window, trying to figure out just what the hell it was that Alfred was looking at this time. _Stubborn American…_

"Ve, there's no one here…" Feliciano muttered as they drove on through, looking for vehicles. They had finally gotten to the residential area of town (which wasn't very far from downtown) and pulled up alongside some abandoned vehicles. Of particular interest (and hope) were the cars parked on the curbs that looked as if they hadn't moved in a while. Everyone got out to walk around as Nate and Marvin dealt with siphoning the gas and filling up the tanks.

They had driven through the storm, and it hadn't been as big as they thought it was going to be. Gerald had attached the snow plow to the bumper of his truck and had gone ahead of them all, cutting a path for them through the snow. The going was slow and their journey to Pine Bluffs ended up being longer than they had initially predicted. Arthur was thankful to walk around for a bit, no matter how hard the wind was blowing or how chilly it was. Anything to get his mind off of what they had found whilst inspecting the buried vehicles back on the interstate.

There had been gas in the cars and the tractor, but that hadn't come without implications. Some of the vehicles had been abandoned, but the others… they had people still in them. People that had thought it wise not to venture out into the cold to search for a town or fuel. And those same people had died in their vehicles, starved and frozen. Ivan had jumped when he uncovered them. Ivan actually _jumped._ The cold had preserved them almost perfectly. Their skin was pale, their lips blue, and ice crystals grew on their hair and crusted their eyelashes. Those whose eyes were open were the worst. Arthur had seen many dead bodies in his lifetime, but the worst part about them was the lifeless, glazed look in their gazes. It reminded him of how very close they were to their own deaths.

They had siphoned the gas nonetheless and did not open the vehicles. They left the dead where they were. After all, they only wanted their fuel. Of course those who had remained behind did not have much fuel to offer, quite possibly from running the engine to keep warm, as much good as that had done them. But the other abandoned cars had a good amount when combined. Arthur didn't want to know what had happened to those who had left the motorcade, and they hadn't bothered searching for them.

Arthur and the others who had seen those frozen corpses had not mentioned them, but he knew he wasn't the only one thinking about them. Ivan maybe occasionally, but the others were plenty affected. Even Gilbert had gotten a bit quieter since.

"This town seems sad." Jeanne was beside him.

"What makes you say that?"

Jeanne shrugged. "I don't know… I think this place has been abandoned for a while."

Arthur _could_ have searched the whole town magically with his mind, but he was no longer strong enough to do that nor was he willing to expend the energy to do so.

Nate walked up to them and spat on the road. "Ugh… we're ready to go."

"Did you manage to get all the tanks full?" Jeanne questioned.

Nate nodded. "For the most part. Gerald says we're gonna be good till Omaha, but we should probably stop to get more before then."

"When will we stop next?" Arthur asked.

"Outside Gothenburg, Nebraska."

With that, their little outing was over, and they all crammed back into the vehicles. Lovino, Gilbert, Kiku, and Yao tried to get people to switch with them, but no one was willing to with Marvin in the same van. They eventually gave up and returned to their original seats, and they all began to head out of town.

They were almost clear of the depressing place when Feliciano tugged on Ludwig's sleeve. His attention was directed to where Feliciano was staring out of the window, and he gaped.

They were going past a large, white statue, something he had never expected to see in a town this small. It was of a woman garbed in flowing robes, her arms outstretched and her gaze lowered.

"It's Mary," Feliciano said quietly and started to cry. The figure had been so unexpected and so beautiful a sight. "D-do you think she's watching over us?"

Ludwig took his hand. "Ja, how could she not be?"

* * *

Translations:

Shì-Yes

A Word From the Writer: It's weird, because I wasn't really planning on having the itinerary include a town that had such a statue. I just happened to choose Pine Bluffs because it's small and historic, and then I searched the images and I saw this statue of Mary on the edge of the town. A sign? Hmm...

Anyway, just some good comic relief to chip away at all the angst going on in every chapter. Can you believe most of this fic has taken place in only two states? When I figured that out, I decided they needed to get their asses moving, thus the addition of the OCs and their vehicles. And, really, I'm getting a bit ridiculous with the whole "England always in danger" thing. I don't know, he's just fun to mess with. But seriously, I'll stop now... maybe.

Onward!


	80. Cutting Deep

**The lulz ends here, folks. Back to the drama llama.  
**

Warning: Angst, retelling of violence, a eulogy, a small gory scene.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Cutting Deep**

"That is the state line, I believe," Kiku announced as they were approaching a sign that read _Nebraska… the good life, Home of Arbor Day._

"Finally," Yao grumbled. "At least we getting somewhere."

"There is _nothing_ out here," Gilbert observed. "Just fields and hills… what a boring, unawesome place!"

"I don't know how the fuck they could have an Arbor Day with so few trees…" Lovino snorted.

"Well, it's desolate." Damn, they were still riding along with Nate and Marvin. A bunch of pussies not willing to switch with them, that's what Lovino thought. "I doubt we'll run into any Organization members here. Right, Marv?"

"Hmph."

Nate frowned. "You don't have to be so negative, damn!"

There was an odd silence that followed.

Nate kicked back, clasping his hands behind his head. "Fuck, all this scenery is boring as hell. I'm going to sleep." Then he added seriously. "And I don't like to be woken up."

"We will not wake you," Kiku assured when everyone else stiffened.

"Cool," Nate said cheerily and closed his eyes.

Great. Now they were sitting in a van with Marvin. How the fuck were they supposed to understand anything he was saying if Nate fell asleep? And Marvin seemed to get angry very easily. If they didn't understand him when he spoke…

Gilbert sensed Lovino's mounting anxiety and patted his head. "Go to sleep," he whispered.

Lovino leaned against him in spite of himself. He thought he saw Marvin's eyes on him in the rear view mirror, but when he went to look himself, the man's eyes were on the road. Lovino gave him a stern glare. "Don't you dare be loud," he hissed.

"I won't," Gilbert assured, and when Lovino continued to stare at him, he said, "What?"

Lovino huffed and settled against him, Gilbert wrapping an arm around him and letting Lovino rest his head on his shoulder. Gilbert, meanwhile, stared at the back of Marvin's head, hoping to fuck he didn't talk. Or grunt, or whatever the hell he did.

 _Pfft, I can totally take him. I'm awesomely ripped!_ He looked down at himself and frowned. _Okay, maybe I'm not. But I'm sure my balls are bigger. Yeah, steroid boy probably has raisins down there, kesesese…_

Marvin grumbled something, and Yao and Kiku flashed the albino angry glares. Gilbert bit his lip. Had he laughed out loud?

Oh.

He would be quiet now.

* * *

About four hours later, the sun had long gone down and they were all hungry again. They stopped just outside of Gothenburg, making a fire and passing around whatever they had picked out of the cans. The hot food was a godsend, and they quickly ate it, though most were still left hungry. Kiku had taken stock of what food they had left and told them that they would have to start limiting their meals. As they finished, questions arose about the newcomers, and Gerald eventually said, "Well, I guess we'll each have to explain where we came from. I'll start.

"I was born in Emmet, Idaho, not far from the Oregon border. There I worked as a mechanic in my own auto body shop. My family had owned it for generations, but when things started to get restless, the wife and I decided to move on.

"It wasn't until a few days later we found out about the Uprising. Of course it wasn't being called that then, but we quickly drove to her mother's house to check on her. My wife wanted to stay with her mother; we have no children, so she could devote all her time to her. But I got a frantic call from my sister in Illinois and I decided I wanted to see how she was faring. It wasn't an easy decision, but I left my wife in Oregon with her mother while I took the truck and set off for Chicago.

"I was heading back to Idaho when a disheveled woman flagged me down."

"I had just escaped from Organization clutches," Jeanne continued from there. "Before, I had lived in Astoria, Washington with my husband. We were both police officers and we were quickly targeted by early Organization rebels. I was six months pregnant at that time, but I miscarried after the abuse they dealt me. My husband was shot and killed and they drove me into Oregon, but I escaped. Before finding Gerald, I gave birth to my son and buried him. I was pretty bloody, and I'm surprised he stopped.

"Gerald said he was going to Chicago to check on his sister, but I had a cousin down south that I was worried about. He had been sent to military school in northern California, and I wanted to see if he was okay."

Nate stood and smiled. "That's me! Well, military school sucked and all, but when the Uprising happened, the guys inside the school started to riot. Sure, there were some tough instructors in there to keep us down for a bit, but we outnumbered them. As soon as we could, we got the advantage and began to run the school like _we_ wanted to. Those sniveling, chickenshit instructors were hogtied, and no one bothered us for a while.

"Then things started to split. There were two guys that had been butting heads for the role of leader for a while and everything just simmered over. The school went into chaos, people were shot, killed, tortured, and I was glad to finally get out of there with my balls intact when my cuz showed up outta nowhere and I hitched a ride.

"It was a tight fit in that truck, but we were determined to get another vehicle so that Jeanne and me could go our separate way while Gerald continued onto the windy city. But when we tried to steal a van we thought was left behind in Medford, Oregon, we quickly found out that it did have an owner."

"Hmph," grunted Marvin.

"I know," said Nate. "I'll explain. Marvin was a fitness instructor in town and had left his van for a while to stock up on supplies. He was going to get the hell outta Oregon and head out to Alaska where he would live in the wilderness to avoid all the mayhem going on in the other states."

"Hmph," agreed Marvin.

"Yeah, so, he came out just when we were trying to steal it and, fuck, was he angry! He's a shit brick house, but he understood our motives and once we explained everything, he was cool with traveling with us. He said we needed some sort of protection anyway, even though I'm practically my own power pack by myself."

"Hmph."

"I know, I know, we needed you too, man. And I'm glad you came along. Now," he returned to the story. "We were taking a trip through Nevada to get to route eighty and just outside Reno, we ran into—"

"Me," Carter said, pushing up his thick glasses. "Um, I'm a student at UCLA, well I _was_ , at least. Studying computer programming. During the summer me and some friends got together and pooled our pay so that we could visit Reno. Well, we ended up blowing our wad and getting stranded there. I told them before we went it wasn't the ideal place for college students working part time, but I was outvoted. It was a mess, everyone breaking into the casinos, holding people up for cash, mass chaos. Thank God our van had enough gas in it to get far away from there. But it was parked so far away and all of us had scattered. I was with a friend and we were almost to the van when some random maniac came up shooting behind us, shouting something about judgement and the end of the world and, I didn't hear all of it because I was trying to see if my friend was all right—" He was getting worked up and he took a deep breath, exhaling in a gust. "He'd been shot and had no pulse. As much as I wanted to take him with me so that his family could at least have his body, the guy was still shooting so I ran. I felt like such scum when I got into that van and no one else was with me. But I had to leave. I didn't want to die.

"I drove out of the city not knowing exactly where I was going. I was in such a panic I almost got into a wreck. The other driver got out to check if I was okay."

Gerald picked up from there. "I saw that it was a kid, and he looked pale as a ghost. I thought he was sick or something and invited him to ride with me while Jeanne took over driving his van."

"I was more than grateful," Carter said. "I get panic attacks and probably would have ended up crashing and killing myself if Gerald hadn't showed up."

"And that's how we met," Gerald finished with a smile.

Gerald's smile was an obvious invitation for the rest of them to tell their stories, but Ludwig wasn't going to let that happen no matter how suspicious it would seem. Instead he cleared his throat and said, "We… we lost one of our own recently and would like to honor him."

Matthew looked up from where he sat huddled against Francis, buried in his coat. Ludwig motioned to him. "Matthew."

Matthew felt put on the spot, but he was glad that they were finally addressing Sadiq's death. Though it would bring up memories, good and bad, Matthew knew this was something he had to do. He couldn't move forward if he kept looking back.

He moved to stand, but then he remembered his wrists, and he remained seated. "I…" he began and sighed. "I really don't know how to begin." As soon as he felt Francis's arm around his shoulders, he could feel the weight of his grief slowly returning. He looked at his gloved hands. "I wish I could say I knew him better, but, in a way, no one really knew him. But I knew a side of him he never showed to anyone, and that was enough for me. The time we had together was," Matthew paused to swallow down the prickly lump that had formed in his throat, but it only grew worse. "short, but wonderful. It would have lasted long after this Uprising was through, I know that." Matthew took a deep breath and looked up, scrubbing his wet eyes. "I know it's not a lot, but that's all of what I have to say. The rest of him is too much to describe in words." _Too perfect,_ Matthew thought, but refused to cry. _Too perfect for this world. Maybe it's good that he's gone. He won't have to endure this hell…_

"I could tell he loved you very much," Francis said.

"I never liked him all that much," Alfred added. "But the way he made you smile, I didn't mind him."

"I still don't like the bastard," Lovino snarked and Matthew glared. "But I guess I'm sad that he's gone…"

"What?" Gilbert quipped. "Because it's one less person for you to bitch about?"

Lovino was fuming and everyone was struggling not to laugh, for Matthew's sake. But Matthew started snickering and everyone followed suit. Lovino punched Gilbert hard in the arm.

"This is a eulogy, you insensitive fucker!"

"I was just stating what your were thinking, jeez!"

Another punch.

"Shit, ouch!"

"Say something else, bastard!"

Jeanne was chuckling and everyone stopped what they were doing. They had all forgotten they had an audience. The woman eyed Gilbert and Lovino. "You two are too cute. You're together?"

Lovino stopped glaring at Gilbert to stare in Jeanne's direction, his cheeks reddening. "Uh…"

Gilbert wrapped an arm around him and yanked him to his side. "Ja, that's right! He's taken so don't even think about it, kesesese!"

Lovino's face was glowing red and he pushed against Gilbert. "L-let me go, bastard!"

"See? He loves me! Kesese… ouch!" Ludwig had flicked his ear.

"Stop making him yell. I'm going to get a headache," Ludwig ordered.

Gilbert winced as he rubbed his ear, releasing Lovino. "You could have just told me, West. You might have damaged my awesome ear!"

"You never do what you're told without discipline."

"And you're brothers?" Jeanne asked.

Ludwig and Gilbert looked at each other. Then Ludwig stood, the wind buffering him and making his face numb. Too much information had already been given. "It is too windy to pitch our tents. Do we have your permission to sleep in the vehicles?"

Jeanne and her companions stared for a moment, as if confused by the sudden change in subject. Ludwig bit his lip.

"Of course," Gerald said with a smile. "But we'll have to move some things around first to make room."

Ludwig nodded. "Ja, I will help you." With that, everyone stood, scattering to help with whatever they could. Gilbert stood, and Ludwig grabbed a fistful of his shirt, yanking him over.

Gilbert yelped and began to say something foolish like always, but Ludwig interrupted, "Take the first watch and have your gun ready."

Gilbert smirked. "Paranoid about the Organization, West?"

"Hardly. A sob story won't get me to trust these strangers anymore than I did before. And you'd best think the same."

When Ludwig left, Gilbert snorted. "Relax, West. I have an awesome sense for liars." He reached up and felt his ear where Ludwig had pulled it so harshly. "Of course I won't be as awesome if my ear was pulled off, jeez!"

* * *

Alfred was helping Ivan stuff things in the trunk of one of the vans to make sleeping room up front when the Russian suddenly dropped a bag he had been moving. Alfred glanced over at him, knowing that the man was anything but clumsy, and saw him wince for the shortest of moments.

"Ivan?" Alfred asked in confusion, then he remembered and his eyes trailed down to the Russian's side.

Ivan took a deep breath and shook his head. "Fine. I am fine. Just slipped…" He went to lift the bag again, when a stinging pain shot up his side. This time he couldn't keep his hand from going there, covering it. His other went to the van, holding himself up as he slumped over.

Alfred moved forward to help him keep his feet. "Ivan, what's going on?"

Ivan swayed a bit before catching himself. "A-ah, I… the bullet…"

Alfred's eyes widened. "The bullet? Ivan, I thought you said it went out the other side?" His voice rose with anxiety. _The one he got from the buring field, oh God…_

Arthur peered around the vehicle. "Alfred, is everything all right?"

"I don't know. Ivan… there's something wrong… Ivan!" The man had slipped from his grasp to slide down to his knees, gripping his throbbing side.

Arthur helped Alfred get Ivan to his feet. "Is he hurt?"

Alfred shook his head, heart beginning to pound. "I-I don't know. He said something about a bullet, and—"

Arthur was aghast. "He… he still has it in him? Since the field?"

Alfred licked his lips nervously and looked at Ivan. "Ivan?"

Guilt ate at Ivan as he met Alfred's eyes. "I… didn't want anyone worrying over me."

"No, no," Alfred said, giving a piteous whine. "No, Ivan, why didn't you _tell_ us? Oh fuck, it's still in there. It's been a whole week, oh God…"

Arthur remained level headed as he unzipped Ivan's coat and pushed it aside, hiking up the shirt underneath. "He must have jostled it while he was lifting things…" He clawed at the bandages, pulling them back just a bit to peek underneath. "Oh… oh Christ."

"What?" Alfred asked, bending down to have a look. What he saw made his heart leap into his throat. "Shit, oh shit, it's red and… and…"

"Not healed," Arthur said, swallowing. "Not at all." Indeed it was no more than a finger-sized hole leading into Ivan's abdomen, the flesh around it swollen, red, and oozing discolored liquid. "We need to get that bullet out. Oh God, how deep is it? It must have hit muscle for it to be affecting you like this…" He peered up at Ivan who looked half in shock, half annoyed. "Can you feel it?"

Ivan nodded. "Da, it's… it's fairly far in…"

Alfred stood again and took Ivan's shoulders. He wanted to shake him senseless. "Ivan, what the hell is wrong with you? You didn't think that bullet could have caused problems later on when you decided to keep it a secret from us? You said yourself we aren't as strong as we used to be and you do _this_? Fuck…"

Arthur rolled the bandage over the wound for now, standing. "This isn't like Lovino's bullet wound. The bullet is too far in to simply pull out with a pair of tweezers…"

Alfred's stomach began to churn and he felt dizzy. "What? Well then what the fuck are we going to do? We can't just leave it in there!"

Arthur put a hand on his shoulder. "The first thing you need to do is calm down. You aren't going to make this situation any better when you're acting so anxious."

"How the fuck can I _not_ act anxious?"

"Something wrong?"

They all turned to see Jeanne leaning on the side of van, arms crossed, staring at them. Arthur immediately began to sweat. This situation just got a whole lot worse. "Nothing. Nothing's wrong, just a… a…"

"A stitch in my side," Ivan finished for him, motioning. "We have been traveling in the vans so much that I seem to have lost some stamina."

Jeanne frowned suspiciously. "There's no need to keep secrets, you know. We're all in this together now. If there's really something wrong, I might be able to help."

They all just stared at her for a moment before Alfred's anxiety got the better of him and he blurted, "Ivan's hurt. He was shot a week ago and the bullet's still lodged in there and it's really deep." Ivan glared, but Alfred didn't notice as he was staring hopefully at Jeanne. "Is there anything you can do?"

Jeanne bit her lip, thinking. "I… fuck, this is another time I wish one of us was a doctor…" Then she added, "I've been trained to deal with bullet wounds in case me or my partner happened to get shot on patrol. I've also been taught how to remove one, but I've never actually done it. I think I still remember how to do it, though…"

"It wouldn't be wise going through with it if you don't really know what you're doing." Arthur advised.

Alfred shook his head. "We can't just leave the bullet in there. The longer it's in him, the deeper it will go and, who knows, it might just pierce an organ or something and _then_ what're we gonna to do?"

"He's right," Jeanne agreed. "It's either try to get it out now while it's still relatively close to the outside or wait another few weeks until he hemorrhages. And, trust me, that's a slow, painful death."

Alfred's lip was bleeding, he was chewing it so hard. "Do you have the supplies?"

Jeanne nodded. "We grabbed up a medical kit as soon as the first riots broke out. Thankfully we haven't had to use it much until now. I'll go get it. You two," She motioned to Arthur and Alfred. "Get one of your sleeping bags and lay him down on the ground."

"On the ground?" Alfred repeated, stunned.

Jeanne nodded again. "Yeah, there's going to be a lot of blood. If we're lucky the cold might chill it so he doesn't bleed out." And she left.

Ivan would never admit it, but he was frightened. He had gotten shot before (much more than one bullet at once had been in him), but that was when he had been a country. Now he was human, and humans died from gunshot wounds every day. He felt so stupid for having left it in for so long, but they had been on the run, and they could not have afforded to stop to tend to him at the time.

Arthur and Alfred both threw an arm over each shoulder to hold Ivan up. Kiku passed them and gave them a curious stare. "What is wrong with Ivan-san?"

"Never mind that," Arthur told him sparingly. "Fetch us a sleeping bag. Quickly,"

Kiku gave him a puzzled look, but did not question further and scurried off. Ivan felt his heart begin beating faster, frantic, as Arthur and Alfred helped him to a spot behind the vehicles where the wind wouldn't be so forbidding. They waited until Kiku reappeared with the sleeping bag in hand, laying it out for them. Carefully, Ivan was lowered onto it, and the Russian bit his lip to keep in painful noises as his wound was jostled.

Jeanne walked over, first aid kit in hand, kneeling down and setting it beside her. "Help me unbutton his coat." They had bundled Ivan back up again to prevent him getting a cold. The irony was not lost on them.

"I'll do it," Alfred said and set to it. He had undressed Ivan more than enough times to know the fastest way to do it. Ivan watched him, felt the hands on him shake and fumble, saw the blue eyes grow bleary with frantic, unshed tears.

When Alfred was finished, he pushed open the coat and hiked up Ivan's shirt. When he saw the blood-soaked bandages his throat convulsed and a sob forced its way up from his chest. "Why, Ivan? Why didn't you tell me?" _How could I not have noticed?_

Ivan felt so guilty that he couldn't answer. If anything, he didn't want Alfred to hurt because of something he did. Alfred moved to sit beside him as Arthur reached over, peeling back the gauze. Jeanne winced.

"Ooh," she said with pity. "It's definitely deep." She opened the first aid kit and rummaged around in it for a while before pulling out some stitches, more gauze, and a scalpel.

Alfred took Ivan's hand, squeezing it. Ivan's stomach began to churn.

"I'm going to have to make an incision to get to it," Jeanne told him, putting a firm hand on his hip. The cold bothered Ivan more than it normally should, but at least it made the wound numb. "But I…" She chewed her lip and her eyes went downcast for a moment. It as clear that she was second guessing herself. Then she looked back up at Ivan and said, "If… if this doesn't work out or I mess up, I'm sorry. But we need to get that bullet out or you're gonna die anyway."

Ivan didn't like the odds at all. But he had to take that chance.

"If you're going to do it, then do," Arthur urged. "The more anxious he gets, the faster his heart will pump his blood."

Jeanne nodded and paled considerably. Ivan flinched when he felt the cold blade of the scalpel against his skin. "Be still," she said tremulously. "This is going to hurt, but you have to be still."

Ivan nodded and clenched his fists. He tore his eyes away from the scalpel to look elsewhere. He couldn't bear to look at Alfred. He felt too guilty to do so.

Kiku was watching with steeped intrigue. He had many questions, but he knew now was not the time to ask them. Instead, he watched and waited. Yao joined him before long, and he did not need to be told to be quiet.

Ivan felt the cold press of the metal against his flesh, felt his skin slowly cave under its touch, until the elasticity of it was pushed to its limit and he felt the first cut. It was just a prick and he could feel the warm blood begin to well beneath it. It was only when Jeanne began to slice that he could truly feel the pain.

Ivan gave a hiss, gritting his teeth as the blade made a trail around the wound. He knew Alfred was watching, as he could feel his grip tighten and tremble. The scalpel cut deep, through flesh and muscle. When the blade reached the latter, Ivan began howling. He had never experienced such pain—not until he was made human.

He began to flinch and squirm, trying to get away, but Arthur moved to hold his legs in place. Alfred was crying above him, and it was obvious he was trying to hide it but he couldn't. Suddenly someone was lifting his chin.

It was Yao. "Bite on this." And he placed a half-frozen stick in his mouth. Ivan focused on digging his teeth into the wood instead of the blinding sting of the scalpel.

"He's open," Jeanne announced, sounding a little relieved. Her hand had been trembling the whole incision, but she'd managed to make it steady enough to make a clean cut. She peeled back the hunk of flesh and meat, following the trail the bullet had made into Ivan's side. When the Russian felt part of him being bent back, resting on his skin, the wind invading the orifice it created, his breathing picked up considerably.

Arthur peered up from holding him down. "He's going to hyperventilate. Do something to calm him down, Alfred."

Alfred just stared. "How? We're cutting into him in the middle of nowhere!"

Arthur glared. "He's not _my_ lover!"

Then Ivan could feel fingers skim over his brow, pushing the loose hair out of his face. "Ivan, y-you have to be still, okay? She's looking now."

Ivan's eyes locked with his and before he knew it, hot tears flooded them. Alfred noticed and interlaced their fingers. "I'm not going anywhere," he promised. "You just be still."

By now everyone had gathered to watch. Matthew had a hand over his mouth, struggling not to gag at the sight of blood and, well, the inside of Ivan's side. Francis put a hand on his shoulder, feeling a little sick himself, and Matthew covered his face with his hands. "Oh maple, I can't watch…"

Meanwhile, Jeanne picked around for the bullet with some tweezers she had retrieved from the kit. With every jab, Ivan yelped and twitched and Alfred squeezed his hand.

Just when everyone was beginning to wonder if this was truly the best thing to do, Jeanne gasped, "Found it… I found it." And she struggled to grab hold of the slippery bullet. It had been buried in Ivan's side for so long, the muscles had begun to grow around it. She eventually eased it loose, and Ivan screamed. Alfred was horrified. Ivan had never screamed before now ( at least not that Alfred had ever witnessed) and it was one of the most pitiful, agonizing things he had ever heard. "I'm sorry," he cried. _I'm sorry I can't help you more._

Finally, and with much finesse, the bullet was pulled out. Jeanne studied it for a moment before placing it down beside her and assessing the mass of torn flesh she now had to correct. "I'm going to sew you up now, Ivan." And she reached for the tweezers, the needle, and the stitches.

Stitching up the injury was perhaps the most painful part of the whole process. The cold could only do so much good for the pain as Ivan's skin was pierced and threaded through over and over again. It burned every time Jeanne ran the thread through his flesh, and Ivan was so tired of yelling that he lay silent after a time, hot tears of anguish and embarrassment rolling down his face. And Ivan had thought he had cried all his tears during his childhood. How very wrong he was. He closed his eyes, humiliated that he had let pain win over him.

"It's almost over," Alfred told him, no longer being able to watch.

And then it was. Ivan spat the stick out of his mouth. It was nearly cracked in two.

"I'm sorry," Jeanne said as she gathered everything back up and put it away in the kit. Her work wasn't perfect, but it would suffice. "You shouldn't overexert yourself for a while, wait till it heals."

Arthur let go of Ivan's legs and cleared his throat but found he had nothing to say. Alfred wiped the tears off Ivan's face. "You'll need to rest." He looked at Arthur. "Help me lift him."

Arthur nodded. "Yeah… right."

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Is it wrong to ship your own characters? Marvin and Nate seem to be a good pair... Anywho, now you know the backstories of the OCs... and what happened to the bullet in Russia's side. I like making Russia cry, too. Just the feels from it... There'll be more action next time. I just have to give the initial feel of arduous travel first. Can't just apparate everywhere! Speaking of which...

I watched a little too much Harry Potter over the break and have gotten into reading the fanfiction for it again. I'm really trying to take in as much info as I can so that I can write my own fanfiction for it. Well, I've started on one, but it won't be out for a while. Now, this doesn't mean that I will quit writing Hetalia (who the hell has the strength to do that?), but it might mean that I may be posting some Harry Potter fanfiction soon. My favorite pairings are Ron/Draco, Fred/George, and Oliver/Marcus, so... maybe some from those categories initially...?

I must return to fangirling. Until next time~


	81. Some Got, Some Not

**I was missing the smut.  
**

Warning: Lemon, oral, rimming, some sad stuff, Prumano, Nichu, implied FrUK, and angst.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

  
**Some Got, Some Not**   


Nebraska truly was a boring and deserted place, though no one was complaining about the latter. The land looked more or less the same as Wyoming, except with more hills and no mountains. They did indeed discover that it did have trees, though few and far between. While they were not surveying the great expanse of white around them, they were catching up on sleep.

The great thing about the state was that most of its towns were relatively small. When they stopped for fuel, there was no one around, which was peculiar since the towns were so isolated it was a wonder that the Uprising affected them so much that everyone would desert them. There was no sign of anyone—no blood, no bodies, not even a cat. It was certainly odd, as if the ground had suddenly swallowed them up.

"They get their food and amenities from larger cities," Gerald explained. "When the supplies stopped coming, they had no choice but to leave."

Though a feasible explanation, it did nothing to ease the anxiety everyone felt when journeying through yet another empty town. Fortunately for them, they still had some food left, for there was none to be found. Vehicles had been left sitting on the curbs, abandoned for no particular reason. But they didn't ask questions. They only got the fuel and left.

There wasn't much talking, as the subjects were drear, and ominous feelings grew as they traveled out of Nebraska and into Iowa and from there on to Illinois. They managed to find some food here and there, but their group was large and soon even rationing would not be enough to sustain them. No one brought up this fact, despite everyone knowing it.

Des Moines had been large, but as they passed it no one greeted them. Just lines of empty cars and buildings standing like sentinels to what was once a living, thriving city. As the same with every city they went by.

They stopped again… their last stop until they reached Chicago. They were somewhere outside Ottawa, a small town nestled just off route eighty. Matthew stood before the sign for a while before Francis convinced him to come away. It was only then that Matthew realized how homesick he was. How much he missed the world being the way it _was_ , with people bustling around, everyone moving, thinking, making, doing. He felt like he was one of the last people on earth.

How could they ever fix what had already been done?

Sensing how somber his group was, Ludwig confronted Gerald and said, "We will pitch our tents tonight. There does not appear to be any sort of storm coming."

Gerald was about to insist they stay with them in the vehicles away from the cold, but he picked up on Ludwig's desire to keep his group together and nodded. "All right. Call if you need anything. Jeanne's taking first watch."

The tents were put up and a fire made; there was no one around to see the smoke as far as they were concerned. After a meager meal of warmed fruit cocktail and beans, they sat silently and brooded.

"When we reach Chicago," Ludwig began. "we must not stay there long. I suggest we part ways with Gerald and his group. They have their own plans."

"We'll be on foot again," Lovino said somewhat hollowly.

"Ja," Ludwig replied, also not liking the idea. "But we have no time to waste. I have seen plenty of abandoned vehicles and expect to see many more. We can take some fuel and I can hot-wire a couple. It will not be difficult."

Everyone was quiet before Arthur said, "We should get some rest then, if we are to be walking soon."

Their opinions were mutual and they all reported to their assigned tents. Half of them looked like robots and the others appeared gloomy. They no longer cared about their appearances; Gerald had allowed them to use his razor, but they did so sparingly, and scruff was still visible on their jaws. Their faces were gritty and their clothes in shambles. Their hair was messy and windblown, long and unkempt. A long time ago, Ludwig would have thought seeing Lovino growing a mustache funny. But now it just seemed sad.

Francis went out to read the signs on the edge of the interstate. He didn't feel like turning in, and it was something to keep his mind occupied. He stared at the Ottawa sign, the same as Matthew: _Ottawa, exit 159, 3 miles_. He decided to calculate the distance in kilometers to further entertain himself.

"Bored?"

The voice made him jump and he turned to see Jeanne walking toward him. She smiled when she saw him flinch. "Little uptight, huh? Well, that's expected."

Francis didn't know which question to respond to first, so he only said, "Yes," and they stood in awkward silence for a while. Francis watched the shotgun in Jeanne's hand glint in the moonlight and then his gaze traveled lower, and he felt sick.

"I'm sorry," Francis said before thinking.

Jeanne looked up, frowning in confusion for a moment, before she came to a realization. "Oh… don't be. It's my burden to bear, not yours."

Francis's eyes went downcast. _If only you knew how responsible I really am for all of this._ "It must have been hard for you," he sympathized.

"It made me stronger," Jeanne insisted, and her hand went unconsciously to her rounded stomach. "It was painful, but now I have a purpose." She looked at him, her gaze steely. "I will devote the rest of my life to taking down the bastards who took my life from me. Took _his_ life."

Francis smiled, and Jeanne's brows came together in confusion.

"What?"

"You just remind me of a determined young girl I once knew."

"Yeah?"

"Ouais, and… thank you. What you did today… I could never have done it. You saved Ivan's life."

Jeanne blushed a bit. "It was no problem. I took a bullet once. Not a very pleasant experience, but at least I had anesthesia and trained doctors to get it out."

"You did good for someone who had never done something like that before."

"Really?" Jeanne looked up at the sign, hand still absentmindedly on her stomach. "You know what his name would have been?"

Francis stared at her, not knowing what to say. But he didn't have to reply.

"Adam."

Francis watched her leave, and reading the Ottawa sign no longer satisfied him.

* * *

They hadn't been alone for some time. What had only been a few days seemed a lifetime to them. Only when Gilbert touched his lover's skin did he realize he had been holding his breath the entirety of their being apart.

Their skin was bared and their lips met, fingers retracing the dips and curves of each other's bodies. Breaths caught, and then they slipped into their sleeping bag, Gilbert propping himself up on his elbows above Lovino. The Italian was flushed, eyes hooded, lips parted with heavy breaths. The Prussian smiled. Lovino looked so beautiful lying beneath him like this, as scruffy and malnourished as he was.

Lovino frowned. "What, bastard?"

"Nothing," Gilbert's smile quickly turned to a smirk. "Just enjoying the view."

"Che," Lovino scoffed, though his blush deepened. "Stop wasting time, dumbass." He grabbed Gilbert's face and kissed him.

Gilbert's tongue slipped inside, missing Lovino's taste. He didn't care if they were smelly, or dirty or a little worse for wear. Lovino was one of the most beautiful things he had ever had the privilege to have, and every second they had together was precious.

Gilbert threaded his fingers through Lovino's dark hair and he felt hands trail up his stomach, coming to rest at his chest. His nipples were tweaked and Gilbert gasped, withdrawing. "W-what the fuck was that shit?"

Lovino smirked. "Me finding a new spot to play with."

Gilbert's eyes narrowed. "You snarky little bastard."

"You took the words right out of my mouth. Now get to it."

"Jeez, you sure are demanding," Gilbert grumbled and slid down Lovino's body.

The Italian shivered as his lover's heat left him, exposing his sweat-slick skin to the chill of the tent. "What the hell are you doing, bastard? If you're going to fuck me—"

"I need to stretch you first, I know," Gilbert said, placing his hands on Lovino's hips and tipping them slightly. "Stop bitching, and let me do my job."

Lovino was not completely opposed to Gilbert being so close to his… vital places. But he was impatient. "Well then hurry the fuck up. We haven't got all ni—a-ahh!"

Gilbert nudged Lovino's legs apart and flicked a tongue around his hole. He peered up with a leer. "That was a cute little squeak just now."

"Sh-shut up!"

Gilbert shrugged. "If you want…" And he dipped his head to poke at Lovino's hole again. He made sure to lave around it thoroughly before breaching it, spreading Lovino with his tongue and thrusting in and out. Lovino whimpered, covering his mouth with his hand. The last time he had been rimmed was… well, a fucking long time ago. Just the feel of the slick muscle pushing into him was enough to make him come.

"S-stop," Lovino breathed. "Fuck, I'm ready. Just fuck me before I make a mess all over this fucking sleeping bag by myself."

Gilbert gave him a shit-eating grin, but, goddammit, Lovino's mind was too gooey to do anything about it. So he just lay there, embarrasingly needy, as Gilbert spit in his hand and slicked his cock. He made his way back up Lovino's body and seized his lips again. It was weird, but Lovino was actually not that squeamish about Gilbert's spit lube as he usually was.

"Fuck me," Lovino pleaded against Gilbert's skin. "Put it in already. Please, fuck me. I need you, dammit." Days without sex had left Lovino hypersensitive to every touch and he was more than ready to make up for it.

Gilbert smiled with the heated begs. "Lovi, you're so awesomely perfect." And he inched his way into him.

Lovino seized up, clawing Gilbert's back, biting his lip. "Hnng… u-uh…"

"Want me to stop?" Gilbert asked worriedly.

"You'd better not, dumbass," Lovino snarked and moved his hips so Gilbert's thick length was sheathed to the hilt inside him. "Ahnn, oh fuck."

But Gilbert stopped anyway. "I don't want to hurt you, Lovi," he said as he looked down at him. "We still need to walk, and we can't have you limping."

Lovino fumed. "Fuck me before I push you down and do it myself."

Gilbert didn't say another word. He was just as needy for this fuck as Lovino was, and, fuck it, he was trying to be gentle and considerate, but that last comment did him in. The image of Lovino riding him wormed its way into his head and before long he had set a steady rhythm, pumping in and out of Lovino just like the Italian wanted.

Lovino was aching from the penetration, but it was a good ache. He groaned and wrapped his legs around Gilbert, heels urging him deeper and harder. When that special bundle of nerves was struck, a shiver coursed through him, and Lovino threw his head back, nails digging into Gilbert's back. Gilbert couldn't deny peppering his soft neck with gentle kisses and nips.

"G-Gil, oh…" Lovino desperately needed this. They both did. Not only did it renew their intimacy, but it made them forget about all the shitty things that were going on around them, all their worries and paranoia, all their fear and anger. It also made Lovino think about what a lucky fuck he was that he had found someone even half as good as Toni. It made him think about how much Gilbert truly meant to him and how much Lovino had been bitching about him lately. It didn't seem fair for Gilbert to be giving him so much when Lovino was being such an asshole.

"Gilbert," he panted and the Prussian raised himself to look at him, stopping abruptly.

"Is it too much, Lovi?"

The question was not one Lovino had expected to hear, at least not from Gilbert. Before the world blew up, Gilbert was a pretentious asshole to everyone and Lovino wasn't excluded from such treatment. And now that Gilbert was taking the time to be so considerate of him, choosing rather to suppress his own urges for him—Lovino now felt like the asshole.

Lovino looked up at him, face heating. "I… I love you." Then he added rather quickly, "Bastard."

Gilbert blinked down at him, seeming almost… confused. And then he pressed his lips against Lovino's, hungry, passionate. They only parted long enough to take breath and when Gilbert finally relented, Lovino's lips were red and swollen. The albino, trailed his lips down Lovino's tanned jawline, kissing him all the way to his collarbone, then up to his ear. "Lovino," he breathed before picking up where he left off, thrusting into Lovino was renewed vigor.

They held tightly to one another for warmth and reassurance, taking in every movement, every touch, every breath. The only time in his life Lovino had made love like this had been with Toni. He was truly happy, and he knew Toni would be too.

"Si," Lovino encouraged rolling his hips along with his lover's thrusts. "Si, si, there, unh…"

"Lovino," Gilbert moaned. _You're the best thing that's ever happened to me. To_ me. _This must be a hoax or something. How could I deserve anyone as awesome as you?_ He reached down and stroked Lovino's needy cock.

Lovino's eyes shot open and wide as he reached his orgasm, beginning to shout out Gilbert's name before remembering they could very well be heard, coming over his lover's hand. Gilbert groaned and pulled Lovino's hips further into him so that he could deepen his thrusts. He struck Lovino's sweet spot dead on, aiming to give him everything Gilbert wanted to say but was too damned proud to. By the time he filled Lovino with his seed, the Italian was shivering and whimpering, clutching at Gilbert's shoulders. They remained like that for while before Lovino pulled him down so their foreheads touched, heavy breaths mingling.

"You could never replace Toni," Lovino said and Gilbert felt a sharp pang to his heart. "No one could. What we had…" he trailed off and swallowed, looking away and trying not to let his emotions get the better of him. Then his gaze returned to Gilbert. "But, dammit, I love you, and Toni's gone, and you're not a replacement. I've accepted that fact now, but…" He chewed his lip.

Gilbert knew what Lovino was trying to say. "I'm not jealous," he said, and when Lovino's eyes narrowed, he added, "Well, maybe just a little. And… Toni was an awesome guy. I understand why you still feel that way about him. I do too… you know, in a best friend kind of sense. It doesn't matter to me if you were sleeping with him before. You need someone, Lovi. Everyone knows how lonely you were…"

"Thanks," Lovino said dryly.

Gilbert winced. "W-what I meant was that I-I love you and I'll be here for you and I know you love me—"

Lovino rolled his eyes. "Shut up, bastard, before you say anything else stupid."

Gilbert promptly shut up and smiled sheepishly. "Heh, sorry. I've kind of never been in a situation like this before. So…" He stared hopefully at him. "I didn't screw up, did I?"

Lovino scoffed. "No." He tried not to look too pleased by that.

Gilbert smiled. "Awesome."

Lovino scoffed again and said, "It's cold. And late."

Gilbert agreed by allowing Lovino to turn over and wiggling in beside him. He kissed his shoulder. Just like Toni used to do before they went to sleep. But now Lovino interpreted the lips as Gilbert's, not his former lover's. For all that Gilbert was in the past—annoying, frustrating, loud, obnoxious, the list went on—for all the shit he used to give Lovino, for everything remotely negative that had happened between them (and there had been a great deal), Lovino was truly grateful that Gilbert was his.

Not that he would ever tell the moron. He didn't need to inflate his ego anymore than it already was.

"Gute Nacht, liebe," Gilbert mumbled, arm wrapped possessively around Lovino's middle, nose in his shoulder.

"Buonanotte, bastardo." And his hand went to Gilbert's, interlacing their fingers.

_Two assholes in love._

_Fucking perfect._

* * *

Matthew lay in his sleeping bag, staring up at the nylon roof. He felt so cold and… alone.

"Don't do it," Matthew told himself firmly. "Don't you dare do it." But hot tears gathered in his eyes anyway. Frustrated at himself, he sat up and wiped the tears away before they had the chance to fall.

When Francis had asked him if he was okay with sleeping in his own tent earlier that night, Matthew had felt confident enough to say yes. He thought he had been ready to stand on his own, accept the fact that Sadiq was dead and he wouldn't be coming back.

Matthew wanted to stay sitting there in his tent, alone where he slept like it almost always was before the Uprising. Why now was it so hard to deal with being lonely when he had faced loneliness so many times before?

 _It was a dream,_ he thought. _Such a stupid fucking dream._ But he couldn't just play it off as stupid. He could never bring himself to say that Sadiq was just a fling. Because he wasn't.

"Stop crying," Matthew told himself. "Stop crying, you baby. Just stop crying already…"

He was determined to sit there and wait until the tears stopped coming and the scratchy lump in his throat subsided. But even then, with his dry eyes and his sticky face, Matthew couldn't convince himself to return to the cold, empty sleeping bag with no arms to hold him or any heartbeat to feel against his back. No lips to kiss him goodnight and no soft voice to say 'I love you.'

Before he knew it, he was outside in the freezing cold, not bothering to layer his clothing in order to escape the suffocating emptiness of his tent.

He arrived at Francis's tent and scratched on the material. "F-Francis…?"

There was some commotion in the tent, the sound of bodies rolling around and moving apart. Matthew vaguely heard someone slipping their pants on before the zipper to the tent moved down and Francis's face appeared. "What are you doing out in the cold so late, petit?" He didn't wait for an answer as he grabbed Matthew's wrist and tugged. "Come in before you catch a chill."

Matthew reluctantly consented and followed Francis inside. He looked around and saw that the sleeping bags were rumpled and, Arthur, who sat over in a corner, was tugging on a shirt, hair mussed and still flushed from what they had obviously been doing before Matthew had decided to interrupt them. Arthur gave a stiff wave, a bit embarrassed. "Hey."

Matthew looked at Francis instead. The man always appeared immaculate in any situation. He stared at Matthew with concern. "Is there something wrong, petit?"

"Um… I-I…" Embarrassment pervaded his face. He felt like such a child crying over being alone. "I can't… it's too quiet a-and…" _I can't even speak, dammit._ Frustrated tears began to gather, and his eyes went downcast. He wrung his hands nervously.

And altogether Francis seemed to understand. He righted one of the sleeping bags and pulled the flap down before motioning to it. "Get in, lapin."

Matthew looked up and flushed deeper. "M-merci, Papa," And he didn't bothering stripping down before slipping in. Francis glanced up at Arthur and a message passed between their gazes. Francis got in beside Matthew and wrapped an arm around him, kissing him on his temple, just like when he was younger.

"Bonne nuit, mon petit."

"Bonne nuit, Papa."

Matthew closed his eyes and tried to ignore Arthur's disappointed sigh as he settled down in the sleeping bag opposite them.

* * *

Yao went down on Kiku, tongue pressing and sliding along the soft length. He took it down to the hilt and huffed, pulling away and peering up at Kiku from between his spread legs.

"There is something wrong…" Yao said, studying the soft, wet cock he had been practically making love to. "You're not getting hard, yīnghuā."

Kiku didn't appear as if he was even paying attention to a word Yao said, his head turned and glazed eyes staring off into space. Yao raised himself up on his hands and looked him over worriedly. "Kiku?"

Kiku's chest lifted in a deep breath, eyes still locked on the sloping side of the tent. "There is… too much on my mind."

Yao sighed and gave up trying to get Kiku aroused like he had been for the past half hour and moved to lay down beside him. Kiku was looking away from him, his soft neck displayed much to Yao's pleasure. But he held himself back. If he just took Kiku when he didn't want it, he might lose what little trust he had built between them. Instead, he brushed Kiku's hair behind his ear. "You cannot let everything bother you so much it keeps you from acknowledging your own feelings, xiǎodì."

"Why should I when so many out there suffer because of what I let happen?" Kiku said, his voice disturbingly hollow.

Yao frowned. "Kiku, not all of this is your fault…"

"I have to fix it."

"We can only go so fast…"

"I _need_ to fix it."

"Kiku, look at me," Yao said and when Kiku did nothing, Yao grabbed him by his shoulders and turned him so that the man was facing him. He didn't like the empty look in Kiku's eyes. "Kiku, I'm not trying to say we have no responsibility for what happened, but you need to relax. The more stressed we get, the less likely we are to succeed deposing the Organization and restoring order to our countries." Yao took Kiku's hand. "Why are you so closed? Everything I've done has been so that you could be happy. What else do I have to do to show you I love you, Kiku? How can you not see it?"

Kiku just stared at him, blinking and flushed. He opened his mouth, intending to speak, but then closed it again. He looked away. "C-can we just sleep now? I am tired…"

Yao stared at him in disbelief, wanting to say no, he just couldn't tune Yao out like every other time they were ever alone and intimate like this. But Yao consented, knowing Kiku would one day run out of strength to run away. He did what he had been doing every time Kiku showed resistance to his desire for closeness. He took Kiku's hand and kissed his cheek. "I love you, yīnghuā."

Kiku, surprisingly, didn't react. He didn't push Yao off or ask him to please get off of him. He just lay there with Yao holding him, only knowing how exhausted he was from keeping so stiff when his muscles finally relaxed. Then he was too tired to resist anything, even Yao's arm tightening around him and the lips pressing sympathetic kisses to his neck.

* * *

Translations:

 _Gute Nacht, liebe_ -Goodnight, love

 _Buonanotte_ -Goodnight

 _Bonne nuit_ -Goodnight

(Didn't realize there were so many translations of 'goodnight'...)

 _xiǎodì_ -little brother

A Word From the Writer: Damn, what happened to the graphic FrUK? You'd think there would be more of it, 'cause, y'know. But France is too worried about Canada's grief and England is too worried about pushing France too far after his rape, so I've decided to stall that for a bit. You know... just to vex you. LOL, I can imagine all the FrUK fans punching through their screens from lack of smut. But don't worry! It will come eventually, my dears. Eventually. But, for now, I gave you some cute, albeit passive-aggressive Prumano, so cool your tits. Just saying before anyone has a chance to hit me up on it. As for Nichu... lotta angst there as well. The only legit couple in this chapter is Prumano. Now that I think about it, I'm kind of unintentionally limiting you. But there will be smut for all later on. Ya know. _Eventually._


	82. Whispers

**The smut continues~!  
**

Warning: Lemon, oral, rimming (yeah... again), some non-explicit GerIta (I know, stalling), RusAme, innuendo, mention of toys. All of the things that cross your mind when trying to survive. Shhh, fandoms don't need to make sense. ;)

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Whispers**

Feliciano was peering up through the tent material, seeing the bright glow of the moon through it and… something else. Ludwig was organizing their things, something he normally did to occupy his mind rather than think on the perils of their travel. He saw Feliciano staring upward and frowned. "Feli, you are going to hurt your neck looking up too long like that."

But Feliciano didn't say anything. Ludwig's frown deepened and he sat beside him, looking up himself. "It's only the moon, Feli."

"And the stars," Feliciano said. "They're going to fall soon. But we can't let that happen. There is no room for stars here."

Ludwig's gaze fell back to Feliciano. His tone was… off. "Feli?"

"We must stop the head from coming. We must stop the bloody head—"

Ludwig stiffened and grabbed Feliciano's shoulders, shaking him. "Feli? Feliciano, stop talking like that. What blood? The stars can't fall… what the hell are you talking about? Stop it!"

"Must stop the head… the stars will fall… no room…"

"Feli, stop!"

"The stars… blood…" Feliciano trailed off, head lowering and turning until he was staring at Ludwig, blinking in confusion. "Luddy…? You're hurting my shoulder."

"Oh," Ludwig let up his hold on Feliciano. "Feli, are you feeling… okay?"

Feliciano appeared disoriented for a moment, peering around the tent until he locked eyes with Ludwig and shook his head. "No… no, I'm fine. Hehe, I almost forgot where I was for a second!" Ludwig's brows came together. "What?"

Ludwig shook his head. "Um… nothing. Hey, Feli, what did you say just now?"

Feliciano tipped his head, thinking for a moment. "Oh, si, I was telling you I didn't mind you sleeping beside me even though your _thing_ pokes me in the butt."

Ludwig's face reddened. It was almost twice as embarrassing hearing it the second time around. "Nein, you said something else after that. Something about stars falling and a bloody head. Do you remember that?"

Feliciano frowned at him. "Ve, you're trying to give me nightmares!"

"Nein, I'm not!"

"Si," Feliciano said teasingly. "And I'm going to tell Lovi on you!" He stuck out his tongue.

Ludwig was slowly losing his temper. "Feli, this is not a joke. Do you remember saying any of those things?"

Feliciano stiffened at Ludwig's tone, his eyes round. "N-no, Luddy. Stop scaring me."

Ludwig stared at him for a few more seconds before sighing and saying, "Let's go to sleep. We have a long day tomorrow."

Feliciano giggled. "Are you going to poke me again, Luddy?"

"N-nein! Now get into the sleeping bag!"

* * *

Ivan frowned. "What?"

Alfred had been staring at him for the past hour, and Ivan couldn't exactly sleep because of it. Alfred shook his head. "You're such a moron."

Ivan snorted. "You're calling me a moron? Really? You?"

Alfred ignored the insult. "I'm not the one who decided it was a better idea to keep the bullet in my side a secret than get it out as soon as possible."

Ivan huffed. "I am not a child. You do not need to fuss over me."

"A child doesn't possess the foresight to know that this type of injury could kill them."

"I did not say I didn't have the foresight."

Alfred stared. "So, you would rather have died from a fixable wound than had it taken care of so you would live?"

Ivan sighed in annoyance. "Alfred, I do not feel like arguing with you right now…"

"No, you're not blowing me off again," Alfred snapped. "This is the last time you'll keep something like this from me. You used to call me selfish. Did you even give the slightest consideration to how I would have felt if you'd died from something that could have been fixed?"

Ivan wanted so badly to say something, but he didn't know what to say. So he looked away and chewed on his tongue to distract him from the ache in his side and his rising temper.

Alfred sighed. "Now don't get all pissy."

"How else should I be, Alfred?" Ivan bit back.

"There's no need to get angry just because I told you what makes sense."

Ivan grumbled and Alfred started to laugh. "What are you laughing at?" Ivan bitched.

"You poor, stubborn bastard. Do you realize that I'm not nagging you because I want to make you angry? I'm doing it because I love you."

Ivan glanced at him. "I always thought I was the adult in this relationship…" he mumbled.

Alfred smiled cheekily. "What? Are you irritated that for once I'm right?"

"Maybe… da."

"You're so stupid. You could have avoided all of this if only you would have told someone."

"Thank you for reiterating that."

"Hey, just making sure you're aware that you'll have to be walking pretty soon."

" _Walking_ is not the part I'm most concerned with." Ivan tried his hardest not to smirk, but he couldn't keep it off his face.

Alfred mirrored his expression. "Oh, that's right. Kinda hard to fuck with stitches in your side. We might as well go to sleep then, so you can heal." Alfred sat up abruptly and threw his arms above his head, stretching. "You know, I should really get that gauze Jeanne gave us just in case you start bleeding some time during the night." He scrambled, naked, out of the sleeping bag, hunching over to search through his pack. He found the gauze, but it slipped from his grasp and rolled across the tent. "Damn," he said and got on all fours, stretching to retrieve it.

Ivan knew exactly what the American was doing, and he rolled his eyes—though it was hard to look at Alfred's pert, bare ass and _not_ get aroused. If Ivan's side wasn't hurting like hell, he would have gotten up and shoved his cock all the way to the hilt inside of Alfred (with no lube whatsoever, which was what the slut deserved, honestly). "You little tease. Now look what you've done." Alfred peered back as Ivan shifted the material so that his hard cock was revealed. "Get over here and take care of it, slut."

"I'm not a slut," Alfred protested, though just as soon he was hovering over Ivan's shaft, staring at it eagerly. He licked the crown and shivered when he saw it twitch in response. Fuck, did he want that in him…

"Sure," Ivan drawled as he ran his fingers through Alfred's hair and pushed his head down toward his cock. "Suck."

"I shouldn't even be doing this," Alfred said, pumping the cock with his hand. "You're the one who was acting like a pretentious asshole. You should totally be giving _me_ a blow for my awesome advice."

Ivan pushed his head down more and Alfred's mouth finally wrapped around the head of his needy cock. He groaned. "I am the one who's in pain. I need a distraction. Now _suck_. And none of that teasing bullshit. I know you can deep throat me."

Alfred squirmed at the commands and went down halfway on Ivan. It had been a while, and his throat convulsed the slightest bit, but he managed to find a rhythm and bobbed his head. "Mmm." He felt the shaft throb in his mouth and ran his tongue along it, feeling the taut skin and pulsing veins. He shifted his hips against the sleeping bag, struggling to find friction for his own swelling dick. Eventually his hand went to it, slicked with his saliva and Ivan's precum, rubbing at it fervently before going up to his balls, pressing them, and going farther still.

Ivan knew when Alfred had inserted his fingers into himself, as his mouth became a little tighter and his jaw clenched. He stiffened and whined. It was such an uncomfortable position, and his own fingers were a poor substitute to what Alfred really wanted. Ivan took pity on him and said, "Alfred, stop."

Alfred pulled off of his cock, a thread of saliva following, peering up at him. He was red-faced and panting. "V-Vanya…?"

"Straddle me backward," Ivan ordered, and Alfred excitedly did so. Alfred gasped when his cheeks were pulled apart and his hole examined. Ivan thanked God they'd had the sense to rinse their intimate parts recently. Things tended to get funky down there otherwise…

"V-Vanya~!" Alfred keened as a tongue penetrated him. It was no longer cold like it was when Ivan was a nation—no part of him was so cold. It was warm and slick and felt so good against his inner walls. He was so distracted by the rimming (of which he hadn't had in a long while), he almost forgot to cater to Ivan's need.

He wrapped his lips around Ivan's cock and went down again, quivering as the warm tongue teasing him thrust in and out. Ivan pulled away for a moment to watch Alfred's hole twitch and wink and, suddenly, he couldn't be satisfied with just a blowjob.

Alfred tasted a copious amount of precum on his tongue before Ivan began tugging at his hips. "Turn around and straddle me."

Alfred did so and only when he felt Ivan's hard cock against his ass did he realize Ivan's intentions. "No… Vanya, your side…"

"To hell with my side," Ivan growled and reached around to spread Alfred's asscheeks. "Ride me before I blow all over you."

"Vanya…" Alfred moaned and lifted himself up, sinking down on Ivan's cock with a shudder. He set a steady pace, ignoring the slight ache in his ass as he placed his hands on Ivan's chest for balance. Ivan watched with hungry eyes, taking in everything before him and chalking it up as one of the most beautiful, arousing things he had ever seen.

Alfred rightly knew he shouldn't be riding such a large cock shortly before he would be walking, but after everything that had happened that night Alfred needed to have Ivan inside him, be close to him like this. That and he felt kind of sorry for all the pain Ivan was in, even though it was mostly Ivan's own fault he was in pain anyway.

"Ah, unh." Alfred's legs were growing tired and it was a struggle to keep his voice in check. How Ivan filled him was like nothing else he had ever felt. He would be aching for a few days after this, but he couldn't stop moving, going down on Ivan's cock. "V-Vanya… unf."

"Alfred, красивый," Ivan groaned and took note of Alfred's weakened state. He wished he had the ability to fuck him himself, but he was afraid of breaking the stitches. Instead, he took pity and trailed his hand up Alfred's flushed chest to tweak a nipple. Alfred gasped and clenched around him. Ivan closed his eyes, taking in the sensation of Alfred's tight heat. He may never get to feel this again.

Alfred's hips slowed until he was practically squirming on Ivan's lap. "Vanya, please…" he panted, and Ivan knew what he needed. His hand moved from his lover's chest to his dripping cock and fisted it until Alfred's whole body stiffened and he threw his head back. Ivan was tempted to thrust up into him, but he withheld himself just barely. Words were lost to Alfred as he came. His insides twitched and pulsed around Ivan and milked him of his orgasm not long after.

Alfred was so exhausted afterward, his legs shaking uncontrollably and his chest heaving, that he fell onto Ivan. The Russian wrapped his arms around him and just held him. He eventually had the mind to pull up the sleeping bag so that it covered them both. After a few minutes of lying there, Alfred caught his breath and turned his head, lips brushing Ivan's ear. "Fuck, I love you."

Ivan chewed his lip, feeling a prickly lump rise in his throat and his face go hot. He hadn't felt like this for centuries. As if with just those three words, the ground was being snatched out from beneath his feet and the walls he had been hiding behind (to protect from all the hurt) were being hammered down. It was so much at once that Ivan feared that his insecurity and happiness (his fear of how close he might have been to death earlier) would manifest itself quite noticeably.

Because he couldn't say he may just cry. Ivan never cried. Well, except for that one time, but that didn't count…

Alfred could feel Ivan's chest contract in a weird sort of way and feared he may be suffocating him. "Um, we'd better clean up…"

"Nyet," Ivan said, his voice alarmingly shaky. He cleared his throat to cover it up and pulled Alfred back to him, holding him again. "Stay with me."

Alfred's eyes widened when he realized what Ivan's voice meant and, as much as he wanted to see Ivan's face like this, he knew it would only wound the Russian's pride. So he remained laying against him, nose in his shoulder. He smiled.

"All right, ya big teddy bear."

"Don't make me roll us over and show you how much a _real_ bear weighs."

Alfred broke out in snickers. "Yeah, you, ha, really are a 'bear.' Hahahaha!"

Ivan frowned. "What are you meaning? I only implied that I would crush you if I-"

"Shh, don't ruin the lulz."

Ivan thought it best not to ask what that was either.

* * *

"Nnn," Arthur groaned as light pierced through his eyelids and burrowed deeper into his sleeping bag, pressing back against a body that should be there. But there was none and he remembered.

He sat up and peered across the tent to see Francis holding Matthew, both asleep. Arthur wasn't going to blame Matthew for interrupting them last night, but he was nonetheless disappointed that they couldn't have continued.

He sighed and pulled on some clothes, afterward crawling over and giving Francis's shoulder a shake. "Francis, it's morning. Wake up."

Francis mumbled something and his arms tightened around Matthew. To Arthur's horror, he saw Francis's lips trail down Matthew's neck and one of his hands sink lower…

"Francis!"

Francis stopped and his eyes snapped open, blinking in the harsh light and peering up at Arthur. "Hmm, amour, what is it? Why aren't you in…?" He looked down and realized he was sleeping beside Matthew and not Arthur. His face went hot with embarrassment, and he snatched his hand back. "Oh… oh, oops, honhon."

Arthur was unamused. "Get up."

Francis nodded and nudged Matthew. "It is morning, petit. We must get ready now."

Matthew shifted around a bit and squinted. "Huh? Morning already? Shit…"

"What," Arthur asked, trying to keep the jealous bite out of his voice but not succeeding in the least. "Didn't sleep well?"

Matthew all at once realized where he was and with whom he was laying and scrambled out of the sleeping bag, blushing. "W-well, uh… yeah, kinda."

Arthur saw the dark circles under Matthew's eyes and felt guilty about his reaction. He had to give up sex with his lover for one night. Matthew had to give up sex with his lover forever. It didn't seem right. _What's wrong with me? When did my cock start thinking for me?_ Of course it was Francis's fault. Everything was always Francis's fault.

Francis was dressed first, anxious to get out of the tent for his earlier embarrassment. He had a feeling he was due for a good chewing out, and he wanted to delay _that_ for as long as possible. As soon as he slipped out, Matthew said, "I'm sorry for… disrupting you last night."

"There's no need to apologize, lad," Arthur replied, pulling on his coat. "The least we could do was let you stay the night."

They both knew that the end of the sentence was really 'after what happened to Sadiq', but neither mentioned it. Matthew didn't need to be reminded once again that he was alone. The insinuation, however, still stung, intentional or not.

The whole camp was up before long, Francis going to wake the others as soon as he left the tent. Everyone was so eager to finally get to a house and get some proper rest that they didn't worry over what rebels might be dwelling within the city. So far they hadn't run into any sort of trouble, but Ludwig was still anxious nonetheless.

Carter, who had taken last watch, walked over to greet him.

"Gerald says we're not far off now. An hour and a half tops."

"It will be good to settle down for a bit," Ludwig said, although he was still a bit apprehensive about the whole thing. Not so much about who would be living there as to what they would do after they departed. "The weather has cleared."

The sun had made an appearance for the first time in days, casting a hue over the snow that made the land too bright to look at for a long period of time. The clouds were clearing and their bad luck seemed to be as well. Despite the chill, Ludwig felt the warmth of the sun on his face—something he hadn't realized he'd missed until then.

"Will there be room for us there?"

"If there isn't, we'll make some," Carter assured him before turning to walk off.

Ludwig grabbed him by the shoulder. "Carter."

The boy stiffened at his strong grip. "Yes, sir?"

"You're a smart kid. You have to know that what happened to your friends is not your fault."

Carter winced. "Is it that obvious?" His voice was barely a whisper. When Ludwig only stared, Carter shook his head. "Everyone I've met has seemed braver than me. Even Nate calls me chickenshit. And he's younger than I am."

"You're not," Ludwig said. It was like reassuring a smarter Feliciano… if Feliciano was Asian and wore glasses and wasn't a country or his lov—okay, so this guy had nothing really in common with Feliciano, but whatever. Close enough. "Bravery is nothing but adrenaline and instinct. It has nothing to do with your conscience."

Carter laughed. "Now you sound like my old man. He worked on the flight deck of an aircraft carrier, guiding planes to land and take off. After my brother went into the air force, I was expected to follow. It's family tradition, after all." He glanced at Ludwig. "But I didn't want to be just another statistic. I'm not good at leading. When I told Dad I wanted to fiddle around with computers my whole life, he practically blew up. I had to work three jobs in high school to fund my tuition, but then I got a scholarship to UCLA and… I was elated. If it wasn't for my mom, though, I would've been kicked out of the house. But you know what? I set a goal for myself. I was gonna prove to my dad that I could be just as good as my brother. One day, he'd have a problem with his hard drive or get a virus or just _something_ and then he'd realize…" Carter blushed and shook his head. "Sorry, now I'm just ranting. Besides, they're gone. I haven't heard that they are, but I just know…" Carter sniffed and coughed. "Anyway, thanks for listening. Beats being jeered at by that delinquent brat…"

"Not a problem," Ludwig said, releasing him. "If we can get this shit cleaned up, you'll go somewhere."

Carter looked a bit meek. "Thanks." And he left to rejoin his own group.

* * *

It took a shorter time than usual to pack up all their things and jam them into the vehicles. Of course Ivan didn't participate when it came to that. Alfred made sure to watch him closely so that he didn't get the idea in his head. But something drew his attention away.

"Artie," Alfred said with a smirk. "You're limping."

Arthur stopped, stiffening, and turned around, fixing him with a glare. "So? You have one as well, but you don't see me commenting on it."

Alfred blushed a bit. "Yeah, but I have an excuse."

Arthur scoffed. "I could _hear_ your 'excuse' all the way across camp last night. Haven't I told you already to be quieter?"

Alfred cleared his throat, trying to draw attention away from his glowing face. "Well, you're just boring."

Arthur gave him a withering look. "I didn't get laid last night, you twit," he deadpanned.

"Huh? Then why are you limping?"

"Bruises. We all have bruises, don't we? Damn, I didn't know I needed to check in with you every time I get so much as a bloody scratch."

"That's a big bruise for you to be limping like that. You couldn't have gotten that by not doing something dangerous."

"I _haven't_ done anything dangerous!" Arthur snapped, irritated, and he hoped the dimwit was still dimwitted enough to be oblivious to the fact that Arthur was lying through his teeth. Ever since that little fall he had by the tractor out in Wyoming, he'd been having to cope with a great bruise going all the way from his thigh to his inner knee. Courtesy of the rocky lip of the ravine he nearly fell into. Francis worried, sure, but he didn't need another mother hen on his tail.

Alfred threw his hands up defensively. "Whoa, there, bro. I'm real sorry you didn't get some ass last night, but that's no reason to be all bitchy."

Arthur glowered. "I'll be bitchy if I want. May I remind you that you don't have two burnt, useless stumps for hands."

"Artie, I'm gonna have a look at that when we get to that house," Alfred said firmly and when Arthur opened his mouth to protest, Alfred snapped, "Do it, or I'll slice up your pants while you're sleeping to look at it. Either way."

Arthur fumed and then, suddenly, he composed himself. "Fine," he said, as if he was above it all. "But the next time I hear you two going at it, I'll wake everyone else so they can hear it as well." And he marched off.

Alfred blinked, staring after him in shock. He wouldn't possibly? No… "Heheh," Ivan chuckled, walking up beside him. "I wouldn't mind an audience~"

Alfred shoved him. "Shut up, you pervert."

"You say that now, but who was the little slut last night~?"

"There won't be an _any_ night if you keep talking."

"Oh, stop lying to yourself."

* * *

They set off again, this time with Yao, Kiku, Lovino, and Gilbert in a car _without_ Marvin and Nate. Kiku was staring thoughtfully out the window, blissfully unaware that Yao couldn't stop staring at _him_. What was the younger country's problem? Did Yao need to present some sort of invitation? Did he need to be more obvious than he already was? No, Yao thought, impossible, stupid. Kiku, as perceptive as he was, had to know what was going on between them at the moment, had to know that Yao was worrying over it, had to know that Yao's eyes were always falling upon him at the most random of moments.

 _He just needs time,_ Yao told himself confidently. But they only had so much time to waste.

"Che."

Yao turned to see Lovino glaring right at him and tried to keep color from creeping onto his face, knowing that the Italian had been watching him. "What?"

Lovino leaned over (and Gilbert was too busy smiling inanely and staring off into space, possibly thinking about how awesome he was, to notice) and said in a low voice, "Have you done him yet?"

Yao definitely couldn't keep the heat off his cheeks now. "W-what sort of question is that?"

"A curious one," Lovino admitted and added, "What did he look like during your first time?"

Yao blushed right up to his ears and glanced away, hoping against hope to just return to his previous state of silence. "This is not proper conversa—"

"Just tell me, dammit."

Yao swallowed his embarrassment and whispered, "Yes, we have. And… and he looked…" Yao's breath caught and then the words were slipping out of his mouth before he could catch them. "He looked beautiful."

Lovino smirked triumphantly at the hazy sort of look in Yao's eyes. "Goddamn, you're really in over your head, huh?"

"Sh-shut up! You shouldn't be talking when I hear you last night with _him_." He nodded over to Gilbert, who was still, thankfully, oblivious.

Lovino blushed a bit, but he didn't let that deter him. His smirk widened. "Ah, so you didn't get any last night?"

Yao's face was on fire. "W-wha… how would you know that—"

"You heard us," Lovino muttered. "If you were fucking, you wouldn't have given two shits about all the other noises around camp."

Yao frowned. Deeply. How could this disrespectful, snappish man get more than he did? And all he and Gilbert did was bicker. Yao showed infinite affection to his lover whenever he could—why the hell wasn't it working? "No," Yao admitted in a deadpan. "We didn't do it. So, what? Why you butting into my love life, huh? Yours seems to need lot of work still."

Lovino's lips twitched slightly downward at the comment. "I'm trying to help you, you uppity asshole, if you would stop talking shit."

Yao promptly shut his mouth, though he wanted to say much more. He couldn't believe he—who was thousands and thousands of years old, had developed some of the first _sex toys_ , for God's sake—was taking advice from Lovino. Yeah, as if Lovino had had countless lovers in the past to prove his knowledge was of any worth in this area. Still, he was curious. Anything to keep him from staring at Kiku again. His neck was starting to get a crick, and when you were as old as Yao, it was usually far more than just a crick. "I'm listening."

Lovino leaned in further and murmured, "How did he look last night when you tried?"

Yao balked. "How the hell—"

"Oh, don't get a stick up your ass," Lovino snapped. "It's not like I was listening specifically for you or anything. It was clear everyone was fucking like rabbits last night if they could get some. The amount of limps and smug expressions are enough to confirm that shit. Now, how did he look?"

Yao swallowed and replied, "Distant."

Lovino lifted an eyebrow. "Che, what were you doing, breathing on him?"

"No!" Yao said offensively before his voice became quieter and meeker, and his gaze wandered away again. "I was… stimulating him. More than enough for a reaction!" He tried to hide the fact that his face was pure red behind his snappy tone.

Lovino's smirk turned into an all-out leer, and Yao would have punched him if it weren't for Gilbert being so close. It wasn't like he was afraid of Gilbert—he could run circles around that man any day—he just didn't want to ride in the car with the amount of tension that would form between them if he did happen to punch Lovino. So, there. His excuse. "You mean to say that you were sucking him off?" Yao sputtered and Lovino continued on, "Well, that is certainly strange, but I wouldn't put it past him to be unresponsive. He's sort of like that most of the time anyway. So, I assume that's how it's been for a while?"

Yao nodded.

Lovino scoffed. "Wow, thank fuck I don't have to deal with that shit!"

Yao gave him a withering look. "Are you going to give me advice or boast?"

"Well, boast first," Lovino said and Yao appeared unamused. "But that's done and over with, so I'll give you some fucking advice. Now, Kiku—"—he had to pause. Using a nation's name instead of calling them 'bastard' or 'shithead' or 'fucktard' was certainly strange on his tongue—"he is feeling a bit weighed down by all this, I'm guessing."

Yao cocked his head. "What you mean by that?"

Lovino frowned abruptly. "You're smothering him, so fucking pry your clingy fingers off him and give him some fucking space."

Yao scowled. "How would you know anything? I have been with Kiku the most since we set out. I should know what is good for him and what is not."

"You don't," Lovino said curtly and Yao steamed. "Don't get your ponytail in a fucking twist. I'm just saying you should follow my advice and maybe you would get some."

"But, I can't," Yao said, and his voice wavered a bit. Lovino's features seemed to soften in sympathy then, but only for a moment before they sharpened back up again. "If something happened and I've spent days without being by his side, I don't know what I would do."

Lovino sighed. "Look, I don't even know why I'm helping you, but since I am you better listen to my goddamn advice and take it seriously."

Yao glared daggers. "And how would you know? Have you seen it work?"

 _Toni. He fucking smothered me as soon as he got hold of me._ That had been the reason why Lovino had split the second Toni had no control of him anymore. He just had to get away, but then he came back. He realized that Toni's suffocating nature wasn't because he wanted to keep Lovino sheltered from everything (well, maybe _some_ things), but because Toni wanted his attention. _All_ of his attention. Because he loved him. Lovino felt a slight stirring in his chest at the thought of him, but every—goddamn—romantic image that swam into his vision was of Gilbert. And Lovino wasn't guilty. Not anymore.

"My… friend once had this issue. Just trust me with this shit and _let go_. Kiku has always needed his space. He was isolationist for centuries for fuck's sake. He can't handle all of the shit going on around him, his own feelings, _plus_ all the attention you're giving him and expecting to get back in return. He hasn't been open to anyone—"— _I hadn't been opened to anyone_ —"like this before in his life. He _knows_ your feelings. He has fucking ESP for that kind of shit. He's just stuck in this kind of limbo where he doesn't know what to put his mind to first, to what's most important. Duty has always come before love in his life. He's in shit-deep currently, and you just keep piling on more crap for him to bear. Before long you'll just…" He took a deep breath before continuing, because, goddamn, his rants were long-winded. "just break him."

Yao blinked, his eyes widening. He looked down into his lap to hide his guilty expression. "Oh… I hadn't thought of it that way."

"Yeah," Lovino said almost scathingly. "And I bet you never paid any fucking mind to it when you took him over."

Yao glared up at him and was so close to punching him, _so close_ … right in his goddamn mouth. "Hard to tell when he was always avoiding me. And may I remind you at one point he wasn't the friendliest neighbor either, húndàn."

Lovino knew Yao must have said some kind of curse—he _spat_ it enough for it to be one—but he chose to ignore it for the time being, because he knew he'd struck a rather tender spot in the otherwise stoic Chinaman and that was plenty enough for him. "Che, whatever. I could care less about your fucking history. But I don't want Kiku to turn into some fucking nutjob and go all batshit crazy on us because you mentally cracked him. We already have that fucking ticking time bomb of a Russian bastard, and who knows what Alfred might do next to piss him off?"

Yao felt another curse burning in his lungs, but he held it down. He was getting advice and Lovino—of all people—was kind enough (yeah right) to be giving it to him. He should be grateful (as if) for it. "How will he know not to take it as some sort of rejection?"

Lovino snorted. "I didn't say you had to fucking sleep in separate tents or something, dammit. You can still sleep together but not _sleep_ together. You follow me?"

"Somewhat."

"Before long his head will be cleared and he'll be missing your presence," Lovino finished matter-of-factly. "And _then_ you'll get a good screw. Count on it."

Yao wrinkled his nose at Lovino's vulgarity, but suspicion was churing in his gut. "What for?"

"What?"

"What you do this for?" Yao asked. "Giving advice. You never do it. You want something. What?"

Lovino smirked. Ah, so it _hadn't_ slipped past Yao. Figures. Lovino was so used to giving advice to Toni, that he hardly ever made sure to thoroughly cover up his ulterior motives. The man had been an airhead, but an endearing airhead. "I know that Japanese pervert didn't leave his home without some proper toys. Find me his best and hand it over."

Yao was aghast. "I-I'm sure Kiku would never—"

Lovino gave a withering sigh, already tiring of this conversation… which should rightfully be well over by his standards. "Just get me the fucking toy, and you can keep the advice. Just don't fuck it up."

Yao scoffed and turned away to eye Kiku, who, luckily, hadn't stirred or heard a thing. He had fallen asleep. Poor thing, he was probably so exhausted from all the thoughts running around in his head. And the fact that Yao had caused some of that pain dealt a fierce stab at his heart. He would take Lovino's advice, no matter how unreliable, because he had nothing else to work with at the moment and he kept running into walls every way he turned.

He just hoped it wasn't too late.

* * *

Translations:

 _красивый_ -beautiful

 _húndàn_ -asshole

A Word From the Writer: God, this is starting to sound like Hetaoni. Did not intend to write it that way, but the whole 'running out of time' thing just moved its way up to be the puppet master of this story. But I made this puppet master-I can take it out. Then again... nah, adds too much angst and sexual tension to completely remove it. Dunno if I will scale back on it going off of that fact, but whatever. China wants some ass before he dies. You get it, I'm sure (and I hope you get he wants more than simply that 'cause I don't feel like explaining. This day has officially drained me. That's what you get from hanging around screaming kids all day, but, hey, gotta get them graduation hours somehow. Some were cute, though. All the ones that didn't talk). And what's up with England being all pissy? Must be on his manstrual.

Christmas is almost here and I believe I've been posting this fic since March. I've been writing it for much longer than that, but... 38 weeks? Damn, I'm surprised I was patient enough to keep this up. But, of course, who can deny messing around with Hetalia boys? Also, if this fic was a baby (which it is to me) it would be overdue and tearing its way out of me like the 82-chapter beast it is (ow). I wonder if I'll make it to 100? LOL, I don't really know how many chapters I have until I organize them before posting. I basically write, then when I see a change of scene or a transition of mood, I'll go down a couple of lines, just in case I want to start a chapter with that bit, and keep writing. I don't even name the chapters until just before posting, because I have to gather all these different transitions up into a single chapter that makes sense and has _something_ going on in it, so I don't really have an idea of what a good title for it would be until I do that. I'm just a hot mess. This fic is pushing 508 pages, by the way, and my other document that has all of my Hetalia ideas/uncompleted/one-shot/completed fics (not counting SatEotW-wow, that's a long-ass acronym) is 1,125 pages. I wonder how much one document can take before I kill it with words. Challenge accepted. =.=


	83. Things Fall Apart

**DUN, DUN, DUN.  
**

Warning: Angst, paranoia, weapons.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Things Fall Apart**

For once, Matthew wasn't the one falling asleep in the car. Alfred's head lolled on his shoulder, heavy and warm, and Matthew let him sleep, only shifting a bit to ease the strain in his shoulder. Ivan glanced over every now and then, hiding a smile. The night before they had been kept awake, talking and touching. He never realized how much he liked hearing Alfred's voice. Before it had been unbearably annoying and obnoxious, and it still was. Nothing changed but the fact that Ivan was comforted by Alfred's presence.

Ivan shifted in his seat again, feeling the pain in his side flare up for just a moment. With every sting Ivan felt even guiltier.

In front of them Arthur straightened. "The city… up ahead."

All their gazes fell to the skyline and immediately tall buildings came into view. The highway widened to accommodate more traffic and Marvin guided the vehicle to the off ramp. Everyone held their breaths all eyes were alert and scanning for any signs of danger. But there was no movement whatsoever, nothing to give even the slightest indication of life, except for smoke spiraling upward in the distance.

"What do you suppose that's from?" Francis asked in suspicion.

"It could be anything," Ivan replied. "But it does not look strong. Whatever caused it could be almost gone by now."

Ivan decided it was best not to wake Alfred and the American just kept on sleeping, his snores soft and shallow.

Chicago was one of the more picturesque cities they'd been in so far, excluding all the trash littering the streets and broken glass shattered from recent break-ins. They followed a road through the city that took them near the water's edge—along Lake Michigan. The waves were gray and somber, just like the rest of the city. No lights flashed or glowed. There were no traffic lights that were working, some not even attached to the overhang they were meant to be on. As they drove deeper into the city, eyes ever peeled, they noticed discarded posters, banners, picket signs. _Down With D.C.!, Can You Hear Us Now, Congress?, Democracy is Dead!_ The messages were a of this and much more of the like, painted across walls, strewn across streets, on billboards, in shop windows, everywhere. It was clear that there had been some sort of confrontation in the heart of the city, as there were many of these banners left behind there. Undetonated homemade grenades, broken bottles, crushed guns, riot police shields and helmets, batons, empty mace cans, even a broken down tank, and other items that indicated human activity some time ago. What was peculiar was that there were no bodies to speak of. Despite all the blood stains and smears, there was nothing to account for all of it. Chicago was just—

"Empty," Nate frowned as he surveyed the cityscape. "What the hell happened here?"

Matthew had a sinking feeling in his gut. "I-I don't know. Something bad. Very bad."

"Hmph," grunted Marvin.

"Of course she still lives here, fucktard," Nate snapped and Marvin growled, flexing his muscles at his snappish remark. "Why do you think Gerald would have us come all the way the fuck out here if his sister was dead?"

"Hrrrmph."

Nate was exasperated. "Now you sound like that college piece of chickenshit. We can't go back. Where the hell do we have to go, huh? Where?"

"Hmmph."

"Somewhere small and deserted? Are you out of your fucking mind?" Nate hissed, not realizing how pissed Marvin was. The boy sat back in his seat and crossed his arms. "Fine. You can think that way, but we ain't gonna find anyone out there. Our best chance is in the cities. We need allies. I mean, I know I'm a fucking beast, but I can't take on those Organization bastards all on my own."

Marvin didn't reply, but everyone could feel him brooding. Nate only scoffed and sat back in his seat, scowling. Arthur thought, _What a bloody moron. The brat will get himself killed soon enough, and I won't be sorry to see him go._

Soon the inner city was left behind for the suburbs. This place wasn't much different from the rest of Chicago. Broken glass, looted houses, doors hanging off hinges, trash in the streets, blood smears—no bodies.

"Ve…" Feliciano murmured, curling closer to Ludwig in the leading truck. "I don't like this place, Luddy."

"Hush, now," Ludwig soothed and wrapped an arm around him. "We're almost there. Gerald?"

Gerald nodded. "Yeah, it's just around this corner."

Around the corner was no different than everywhere else they had been. They drove past the dilapidated, deserted houses until they stopped before one that perfectly blended in with the rest. Gerald acknowledged the vehicles sitting in the driveway and on the curb. They were all chipped paint and red stains and broken glass and dents. "They're still here. Thank God." He cut the ignition and turned to them with a relieved smile. "Well, folks, we're here. All in one piece, too. Well… mostly."

The doors were opening to the vans and nations were pouring out by the time Ludwig and Feliciano had made their way to the sidewalk. Everyone's reactions were practically the same: wary and tired. They scoped the area a bit before joining him.

"At least it's deserted." Yao observed. He saw Kiku appear in the corner of his vision and his first instinct was to join him, but he resisted.

"If not, then my brother-in-law has a shotgun in the house," Gerald said. "Good thing he had the mind to go out and get one before all the gun stores were looted."

"Lovely," Lovino quipped. "All the crazy assholes have guns now. Fucking perfect."

Alfred shrugged. "Not like I could have helped it."

"You could have enforced stricter gun laws."

"Artie, you really wanna start this shit again?"

"Let's just go inside," Carter suggested in a small voice and everyone agreed to that.

Gerald walked up the porch stairs and rapped on the door. Ludwig thought it vaguely strange, how knocking on a door had become such an uncommon thing to see and do. When no one answered, Gerald did so again, and it was only then that Ludwig noted the code-like pattern of the knock. They waited a few more minutes before Gerald turned to them and said, "Well, they must be out. I'm sure they won't mind if we settle down."

Ludwig frowned as Gerald twisted the knob and it turned fairly easily, unlocked and not barricaded. A worm of foreboding gnawed at the German's belly, and he allowed everyone else to slip by him (including all of the strangers) before walking in with Feliciano.

The house was two stories and looked relatively… normal. It was certainly bizarre to see everything in its rightful place, no electronics stolen or glass smashed or couches cut up. It was obvious people had been living there, however. Wrappers and containers that once held food were scattered about as well as clothing and… it appeared as if someone regularly slept on the couch. Arthur marveled at the normalcy, as if it was out of place, as if it was, well… _wrong_.

_How could anything be this normal anymore?_

"Hey." Alfred stumbled a bit as he was nudged and turned to see Gerald staring at him meekly. "Sorry, didn't mean to make you trip. But there's an upper window facing the street corner and I just thought that since you have a shotgun, you can set it up there. You know, for watch. My brother-in-law is probably using the other one for game and such."

"Oh," Alfred nodded and dropped his bag behind the couch, out of the way. "Uh, yeah, sure. I guess I'll be taking the first watch, eh?"

"Do you mind?"

"Naw, it's cool." Alfred waved a dismissive hand and grabbed his shotgun. "Um… it's up here, right?" He nodded to the stairs leading up to the second level.

"Yeah," Gerald said, motioning. "Last door on the left."

"Okay." Alfred started up the stairs. He was just glad he had something to do. But when he heard someone step onto the stairs behind him, he stopped and glanced over his shoulder.

"Ivan, no. Stay,"

Ivan made a face. "I'm not a dog. And I won't do anything. I'll just watch."

"No, no," Jeanne said, tugging on his elbow. "No damn way I'm just gonna let you fuck up my stitching job."

Ivan frowned, not liking to be ordered around despite knowing the woman was probably right that he should lay down for a while. "I did not say I was going to—"

"Just stay down here and rest, okay?" Alfred told him, and he continued on up the stairs, feeling Ivan's glare on his back but knowing the man wasn't going to follow.

"Hey!" Carter called, running in from the backyard. "They're back here, everyone!"

Gerald laughed. "That's Linda. Always wanting to be outside. She always did love watching the sun set over the lake." He motioned. "Come on. Let's go meet them."

As much as everyone was eager to just unpack and relax, the obligation to meet the house's owners seemed mandatory. So, they all followed him outside into the large backyard.

The grass was immaculate, if not overgrown. The patio was sprouting weeds and flowers, but was otherwise intact. There was a grill pushed up against the paneling and a shed, the doors open, crouched just across the yard. They could hear someone rummaging around in it, knocking things around rather haphazardly.

"Hey, Don, we're here and I kinda picked up some hitch-hikers. Hope you don't mind, haha!" He scratched his chin when the other man didn't answer, only kept digging around. He winced a bit and walked back to the group of wondering nations. "Uh, yeah, maybe you should go and greet him first. I don't want him to blow up at me 'cause I brought along more people than I promised. Not in front of you, at least. You don't need to hear my ass getting chewed. I know it's been a long ride."

"Truly," Arthur agreed and began walking across the yard toward the shed. "We'll try to be easy on him. Don't want to overwhelm the poor chap. His life's went to ruin enough as it is."

Gerald smiled. "You do that. I'll just try to find Linda. She might be somewhere upstairs. Might be in her knitting room. She loves to knit, and I'm sure she's stockpiled enough supplies to go on for a while."

"Ve," Feliciano said as Gerald turned back to walk to the house, closing the sliding glass door behind him to keep out the bugs and what other little nuisances had taken over since the Uprising. "I hope they have real food here. Canned food is nasty!"

"Shh," Ludwig hissed. "We're not here to leech off of these people. We'll have one—two meals tops, and then we will get out of their hair."

Lovino snorted. "Uptight bastard…"

Ludwig chose to ignore that.

* * *

Alfred was staring out of the window, eyes glazed, just trying to forget about things for a while, when Gerald trundled into the room.

Alfred lifted his head, snapping out of his daze. "Hey."

"Hey," Gerald greeted back before walking over to him. "I was just looking for my sister. She's not hiding in here, is she?"

Alfred laughed a bit. "Nah, I'd notice." _Good thing she's not in here, 'cause I'd probably shoot her at this point, I'm so paranoid._

Gerald's smile widened. "Oh? You're good at that kind of thing?"

"Yeah," Alfred replied somewhat proudly and just then noticed more feet moving up the stairs down the hall. "Uh… did you bring a search party or something?"

Gerald shrugged. "More or less." And Nate, Carter, Marvin, and Jeanne filed in. Their stony expressions were enough to give Alfred pause. He stood. Quickly.

"W-what's wrong, guys? Did something happen?"

Gerald's smile turned sinister. "Not yet."

The door was kicked shut and the lock clicked.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Kind of a short chapter, but there is a perfectly good reason! I've been reading way too much smut lately (well, I can never read _too much_ , per se)-coughmostlyHPficscoughcough-and so, naturally, I haven't been writing as much as I probably should. This fic is catching up with me fast (just like my _Four is Company_ one) and soon I'll be having to write up two chapters every week just to keep this going. So! Shorter chapters are to be expected while I get my shit together. Besides, this one needed to be short 'cause the other one is super long. You'll see why soon.


	84. Lament for an Idiot

**I sense a disturbance in the Force.  
**

Warning: Angst, violence, weapons, dangerous situation, gore, character death (who will it be this time?)

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Lament for an Idiot**

They were making their way toward the shed and, suddenly, something changed.

Arthur didn't know what, but there was a twinge and it grew in size and prominence until he could no longer ignore it. As soon as he'd entered the house, he'd put up safety wards that would indicate whether there was any sort of negative, dark thought or dangerous intent anywhere around or inside the house. He stopped and his breath caught, heart beginning to pound like a drum in his chest. He looked over and saw Ivan had stopped as well. Their eyes locked and immediately what Arthur was feeling was confirmed.

Ivan felt it too.

Before Arthur could say anything, Ludwig had reached the shed. He looked inside and everyone crowded around them. "Was?" Gilbert asked, astonished. "What the hell is this?"

A raccoon was rummaging around in the shed, crawling over the lawn mower, various gardening tools, scrambling toward some rotting animal to fill its belly. When it saw them, it turned around, blinking at them for a moment before hissing and scrambling away into the mess until its ringed tail was no longer visible.

"The house," Arthur began, the feeling of dread clenching his gut almost painfully. "There's something going on in the house!"

At this point, no one asked him any questions. They knew what Arthur sensed was very much real, and they responded by rushing to the sliding glass door only to find… it had been locked.

"Goddammit," Arthur cursed. "We're locked out!"

"Let me," Ivan said and tried to concentrate on moving the lock on the other side of the glass. But his mind was immediately met with an insurmountable wall. "Что…?" He tried again, putting everything he had into his abilities, but once again falling short. "Дерьмо!"

"You can't get it?" Arthur asked, shocked.

"Step back," Ivan warned and everybody did so, and not a second later Ivan's foot was connecting with the glass. But it didn't break and Ivan doubled over, clutching his stitched side. He was more than disturbed. He had always been able to break down any door.

"Oh God," Arthur realized. "Alfred's inside. He's still inside!"

"Who has a gun?" Francis asked, looking around. "Anyone?"

"We left all of them inside!" Ludwig came to the conclusion and swore. He knew he shouldn't have taken Jeanne's advice and packed all the weapons away just in case one accidentally went off in the cars.

"Out of the way, West!" Gilbert shouted and they all parted so that Gilbert and Yao could drive the lawn mower at the door. With their dual weight behind it, the glass bent and finally shattered. By the time they stumbled in and their eyes darted around frantically for their weapons, they were surrounded, peering down gun barrels. Jeanne stood at the head of the corral, Alfred tied, gagged, and blindfolded standing before her. Her gun was pressed to his temple.

"Now," she said, her voice holding an air of strict authority that was like a kick in the stomach. "Cooperate, or Mr. Jones dies."

"You lying bastards," Ludwig growled, and the guilt that overcame him shook his voice. He should have known.

They were trapped like rats on a ship none of them had noticed was sinking, crammed together in an effort to be shielded from the weapons pointed their way.

Jeanne rolled her eyes at that. "Oh, please. You may be more of number, but you're as dull as a flock of sheep. As soon as you see someone who can lead you, you follow without question. Or are you just too above it all to think you couldn't be so oblivious? Yes, I fed you lies. We all did. Yet all of you were too dim to realize you were being strung along. Peculiar, since you're all nations. Guess that accounts for your screw ups."

Everyone stiffened at the word 'nations.' _They know._ Ludwig opened his mouth to speak again, but Jeanne quickly began, "Allow me to bring you up to speed on world events. All of your governments have been eradicated, replaced by small rebel groups. But that didn't last long. The Fellowship of Man extended its seductive tendrils to the international stage, or rather what was left of it. We have managed to snag every other torn country in our web. People want hope. We give them hope. They want higher ups who listen. We indulge them." Jeanne's smile widened. "The Fellowship of Man is now operating at an international level, with major connections in London, Berlin, Sydney, Moscow, and Beijing. But the city names should be changed shortly. It's one of our requirements. Want no trace of the traitors who came before us, now would we? Allow us to introduce ourselves." Jeanne spread a welcoming arm through the air and the one closest to her, Gerald, cocked his head.

"I am a former FBI investigator who led part of the coup that killed all opposing fellow workers. Tracking down criminals like you is my specialty."

"I was a pysch patient before me and the other patients killed all the doctors that abused us," Nate said without a sign of emotion on his face. "I was classified as a psychopath… after I put a bullet in all my family's heads. Now I work as an assassin for the Fellowship."

"I am a former marine." Everyone flinched as Marvin's deep voice rumbled through them. "I was recruited by the Fellowship of Man to reveal military secrets before taking out my superiors."

The only one left was Carter, and Ludwig couldn't believe the young kid who he expected to never have held any sort of weapon in his life to glare him down with such hate and condemnation, hand on the trigger of his handgun. "I wasn't wrong about being a geek. I worked in the military as a graphic simulator, testing and cataloging 3-D generated models and their construction, how it would crumble if things went boom. The Fellowship of Man requested that I begin to build up their information system for monitoring communications—and create models for new military equipment. They gave me an offer I couldn't refuse: a job where I was important."

Their eyes fell to Jeanne, then. Jeanne, with her rounded, formally pregnant belly. Jeanne, who seemed to be leading it all. "And my sob story was true enough. I wanted to kill every Organization member I could after they took everything from me, but then the Overlord allowed me to be the first to participate in something important. Something that the Overlord sees as critical to our dominance and the continuance of our race. And I took it." She sighed wearily. "However, he said that some little bugs were disrupting his progress. I, naturally, was more than willing to squash them. He said that an Alfred Jones was wanted for treachery and deceit. I was much obliged to gather my crew and head over, since the Bloodhounds are as lack-witted as their namesakes. So I had them herd you, and you just happened to be blind enough to fall for our 'escapee' personas. How pitiful. No wonder the world went to hell because of you. You couldn't smell the shit hitting the fan if you were on the receiving end of it." She motioned with her gun hand and her companions closed in. "Now, we have bounties out for your heads from your respected countries and I have been given permission to take you dead or alive. Alive would be ideal, though. The Overlord does enjoy torture and no doubt you deserve a great deal of it. So how will it be? Come quietly or be pumped full of lead? Your choice. Quite honestly, I like killing just as much as torture, so I have no qualms about downing you where you stand like the despicable pieces of filth you are."

Suddenly, Matthew stepped out of the protection of his peers. Francis made an urgent grab for him. "Matthieu, what are you doing?!" But the Canadian ignored him and looked straight at Jeanne.

"I'm Alfred Jones. We switched names so he could be my decoy if something like this were to happen."

Alfred, although gagged and blindfolded, shouted something muffled and shook his head fervently. But Matthew wasn't backing down from this. Alfred was his brother and he felt it was his responsibility to help him any way he could.

But Jeanne only laughed. "I thought I reached the depth of your stupidity days ago. But _this_? What a joke. Always like you nations, deceiving so that you get what you want."

The whole time they had been standing there, huddled, Ivan had been trying to focus enough to mentally extract the gun from Nate's hand. But he was so distracted by Alfred being in danger that he was taking longer than usual. Precious minutes wasted as all he could think about was _Alfred, Alfred, oh God, Alfred, why did I ever let you go upstairs by yourself?_

Arthur, naturally, could feel him working, but the Brit barely batted an eye. He wished he could use magic, but he was afraid it would go out of control like last time. The wards he had put up were nothing, but he couldn't overexert himself.

"Typical," Jeanne scoffed, and Matthew suddenly proved a great distraction. Ivan actually saw the gun twitch in Nate's hand, but the boy was paying too much attention to the exchange between Jeanne and Matthew to notice. "You bastards go so low it's incredible you still have morals. What, do you think by being so noble you'll gain your people's trust again? They've seen through your farce and moved on."

Ivan gritted his teeth. _Come on,_ he urged. _Come on, come on, come_ on _!_ The gun shifted, and Nate's hand tightened around it. Ivan's impatience flared.

"Stand aside, shiteater," Jeanne spat. "You can't pull the wool over my eyes anymore. If you're gonna lie, try looking me in the eye like you mean it. Or are you just the coward like your friends all are deep down? You ever gonna take responsibility for what you did, you fucking piece of chickenshit?"

The way Jeanne sneered at Matthew, the way she regarded him as if he was the lower than dirt was something Matthew could not take. Being belittled was worse than being ignored, and (for the first time in his life) he wanted to punch someone in the face. And that someone was Jeanne. Before he could stop himself, he rushed forward, yelling and drawing his fist back in a threat. Jeanne, though surprised, was prepared and she redirected her gun to Matthew, as did everyone else.

Francis practically pushed others to the ground to get to Matthew. "Matthieu, stop!"

And then many things happened at once.

Ivan gave up on subtlety and yanked the gun out of Nate's hand with his mind. The boy startled, giving an alarmed shout as the weapon shot out of his hand and into Ivan's. Nate ran over to get it back, bemused, but was met with Arthur who shoved him roughly so that he stumbled backward. This gave enough time for Ivan to aim at Jeanne and shoot her gun arm. She gave a pained shout before shooting back and effectively missing Ivan and Matthew both, the latter having been pulled by his hood backward down onto the floor by Francis and the former spotting it early and jumping out of the way, his side screaming. Alfred, meanwhile, had dropped to the floor when he heard the gunshots, rolling onto his stomach and slithering forward, hands still tied behind his back, blind and mute, hoping he didn't get stepped on or worse. He was quickly caught by Jeanne again. Nate, meanwhile, was shouting obscenities as he plowed his way to Ivan, but Arthur encountered him again. Before he could do anything, though, he was kneed in his bruised thigh. Arthur yelled as he dropped to his knees, and Nate give him another vicious kick that sent him tumbling onto his side for good measure as he stepped over him.

Upon the first shot being fired, Ludwig ducked and tried to back his way out of the circle, but he backed into a solid brick wall which just happened to be a very pissed Marvin. The man swung at him and if Ludwig had been a second slower, he would have had a broken nose. He bobbed and weaved around Marvin's flying fists, and when the man started using his feet too, Ludwig merely retreated back into the fray, knowing he was wasting precious time fighting and _oh fuck, where was Feliciano?_

Luckily for him, Feliciano had used his fast legs to get out of the way of the fighting. Lovino had found him and they were both crouching, shaking and frozen, just behind the couch where they hoped no one would see them, having taken advantage of Nate's absence to get away. Ludwig's heart pounded and he could hear Marvin stomping after him as he made his way toward the couch, looking for the weapons they had left behind. When he peered over it, he was dealt a harsh slap to the face. " _Scheiße_!"

"Fuck, you idiot!" Lovino had been scared shitless when he'd seen a foreign head peeking over the top of the couch.

Ludwig glared, but didn't have time to argue. "The guns—there, give me one. Quickly!"

Lovino was hesitant to leave Feliciano and he was shaking so badly he was barely of any use. It felt like a lifetime before he finally located the weapon Ludwig had been asking for and tossed it over to him with surprisingly good aim.

Ludwig reeled about just in time to pistol-whip Marvin, who had finally reached him. He ducked out of the way while Marvin was distracted with his pain. Luckily he was distracted enough not to notice Lovino and Feliciano cowering just below him and lumbered off after Ludwig.

Kiku was locked in survival mode, everything in his vision seen as a potential threat. He covered Ivan as the Russian had a violent shoot-out with Jeanne who was trying to drag Alfred up the stairs, but was not getting very far with the blind, bound American tripping up the steps and trying to avoid all the bullets. Nate confronted Kiku after a while of fighting through the endless sea of moving bodies, pushing aside a shouting Yao, who was distracted with fighting Carter to see him coming.

Yao had gotten into the thick of it as soon as Ivan had the gun. He'd rushed toward the man, expecting him not to be strong, but Carter certainly had some heft to him. He dodged Yao for a bit before the Chinaman finally caught him, wrestling with him for the weapon in his hand. They were each trying to force the other to the ground and curses rattled off Carter's tongue so vicious Yao barely remembered the farce that he used to be. Then he was pushed from behind, and the stumble was just enough for Carter to yank his gun hand free and aim it. His glasses were askew, but it only added to the wild rage in his eyes. He truly hated them. He hated them all.

Then two bodies fell backward onto him, and Yao was crushed beneath them, squirming. He realized that Nate was kicking and writhing on top of him while Kiku tried desperately to snag his limbs above him. They locked eyes for a moment before Kiku rolled Nate off of him and they both wrestled on the floor, fighting for dominance. Yao's gaze returned to Carter, who was busy ducking from the bullets flying by his head. But Carter finally steadied his arm and aimed.

Then Carter's legs suddenly crumpled, and he fell to the floor. Yao looked over to see that Francis, who was still on the ground, had kicked the backs of his knees. Matthew, who was beside him, was reaching for his dropped gun. But Carter was quick to recover and snagged it before Matthew could. At this, Francis launched himself onto Carter's back, pushing him flat against the floor. The gun dropped from his hand again but quick feet kicked it out of reach. Instead of wasting his time looking for it, Yao rolled over to help Kiku subdue a now very irate Nate.

Gilbert had been wrestling with Gerald, had been doing so this entire fight, and he didn't think such an old and overweight man could hold his own so much. He had formally been part of the FBI, so he had to have some knowledge of defensive maneuvers, he figured. As soon as Ivan had a gun, Gerald had aimed at the Russian, and Gilbert had flown at him before he could shoot him in the back. He had practically plowed into him from the side, but the man (possibly from his hefty weight) didn't keel over like Gilbert had expected him to. Instead, he reeled about and gave Gilbert a punch to the jaw that sent his vision swimming for a moment before his own knuckles connected with the older man's stubbly chins. The fight between them endured and intensified, each vying control of the loaded weapon in Gerald's hand. Gilbert finally managed to snag his wrist, but Gerald kneed him in the stomach and Gilbert's grip loosened enough for Gerald to wriggle away.

Arthur, meanwhile, was in agony on the floor, but no one (thankfully) was trampling him or paying him much mind. So he used the time to crawl to the closest combat he could find and that was Gerald and Gilbert. He saw Gilbert struggling, teeth gritted and eyes burning with determination, but with every move, every bluff he tried, Gerald noticed just in time and managed to avoid getting snagged. The Briton felt so useless seeing them fight. His burned hands were too painful and weak to fight with, and his leg spasmed so much that he doubted he could stand. So, while Gerald was occupied, Arthur did the only thing he _could_ do.

Gilbert was concentrating so hard, it came almost as a shock to him when Gerald finally broke in his struggle to cringe and glare down. Gilbert followed his gaze and saw (with much surprise indeed) Gerald's ankle in Arthur's teeth.

"You fucking animal," Gerald cursed, trying to shake him off. He gave a pained shout when Arthur's jaws only clenched tighter around him. "Christ! You sonofabitch!"

Arthur looked up at Gilbert and it was only then that the Prussian realized that this was his chance. With a flick of his wrist, he caught the gun and yanked it out of Gerald's hand. And before the old man could even give a startled yell, Gilbert pressed the barrel to his head and pulled the trigger.

Arthur quickly let up and rolled out of the way, trying to avoid his jaw breaking from the collapsing body and the blood pouring down. The blood back-splattered and Gilbert squinted his eyes shut, feeling it run down his face and eyelids, tasting it on his lips. Shivering a bit, he stood and let Gerald fall, kicking his corpse to make sure he really was dead. He looked down at Arthur.

"Danke."

Arthur only nodded and dove back into the action, looking for another ankle to bite.

Gilbert now had a gun. Great. He surveyed what was going on, only to find most of his view obstructed by Ludwig, who was running toward him, and Marvin who was following and not looking particularly happy. Gilbert had time only to vaguely wonder if Lovino was okay and where the hell he might be before Ludwig spotted the gun in his hand and shouted, "Verdammt, use it!"

But Gilbert was too slow and Marvin was too close. Ludwig tried to veer to the side to avoid Marvin's killing embrace, but he was caught up in it anyway. Gilbert watched in horror as his brother was scooped up and a muscled arm wrapped around his neck, squeezing. Ludwig's hands went to it, gripping, pulling, legs flailing, gasping for breath. His gun dropped from his hand and skittered across the floor.

Gilbert was so horrified that it took longer than usual for him to take aim. But his finger only twitched on the trigger before a bullet had lodged in Marvin's bicep. Gilbert looked around for who might have shot and found Lovino crouching beneath one of the arms of the couch, Feliciano clinging to him and a gun in his hand. He looked up at Gilbert and shouted, "Do something, dumbass!"

Gilbert would have done just that if it wasn't for someone knocking him from behind and the gun flying out of his shaky grasp to slide (as it figured) all the way across to the other end of the couch. Lovino gave him a withering look. _Fuck!_

Marvin's grip let up as he dealt with the pain in his arm and Ludwig slipped from his grasp. He dropped to the floor, knowing he had only a few precious seconds to search for his weapon before Marvin recovered enough to snatch him up again. He turned, searching, heart pounding and head still spinning with lack of oxygen, before he was met with a pair of sturdy legs and his gaze drifted upward.

Marvin gave a triumphant smirk. "Looking for this?" He flashed Ludwig's handgun and the German had barely any time to be shocked before he was being yanked to his feet, his shoulder nearly dislocating with the force of the pull. He felt the cold barrel press to his gut and Marvin narrowed his eyes. "You're a tough fucker. Just like the vermin you are."

Lovino aimed and shot again, but he was shaking so badly that his bullets lodged in the wall instead of in Marvin and eventually he had run out. Gilbert locked eyes with him and Lovino saw something in them… he didn't want to see.

"No," Lovino breathed in disbelief as Gilbert made a move toward Marvin, and his voice escalated, giving up his safety, and he rounded the corner of the couch, arms flailing. "No, you fucking goddamn idiot!"

And Gilbert _was_ a fucking goddamn idiot. Because in the few seconds it took for Marvin to move his finger on the trigger, he had reached him… and pushed Ludwig out of the way with all his might. Marvin was too far gone in his reaction to stop it, and why would he even stop it anyway? Lovino felt his heart explode as the bullet tore out of Gilbert's back, a dark stream of blood following it like the tail of a comet.

No one stopped, no one even turned to see what had happened. For all they knew it was just another bullet lodged in just another wall. But Lovino wouldn't have it that way. He stood, but just as he stood Gilbert sank to his hands and knees, blood spilling out in a steady stream below him, bubbling on his lips, his lungs rattling with it. Ludwig called his name and rushed toward him, but not before Marvin gifted Gilbert with another bullet. Straight to the head.

And just like that Lovino felt his whole world crumple around him, just as Gilbert crumpled and fell limply onto his side. Part of his head was missing and red pooled beneath him, flowed out of him, endless, horrible, and so very familiar to Lovino. He felt as if his lungs had been crushed, but just as soon he had breathed in too hard, filled them too much, and he was screaming, defiant, relentless, excruciating.

_"Gilbert!"_

Everyone did stop then to look around and see just what it was that Lovino was screaming so agonizingly about. Marvin scoffed, "Noble dumbass," before spitting on him and stepping over his body to take aim at Ludwig. But before Ludwig could do anything, there were three shots in quick succession, and Marvin's legs gave out, falling forward so that Ludwig had to jump out of the way to avoid being trapped beneath him. Three bullet holes smoked in his back while three fingers of blood made trails down his dark skin.

Matthew was holding Carter's gun, his body shaking with barely suppressed anger. "Heartless motherfucker!" he yelled, tears coming to his eyes.

And just as quickly the fight had started up again, though with renewed vigor and only three enemies left to down. Matthew didn't waste any time. He watched Lovino fall to his knees beside the couch, face in his hands, sobbing, and he watched, watched because he wanted the anger to just take him and make him do horrible things. Because it was only right.

Carter squirmed beneath him and Francis before Matthew directed the barrel to the man's head and promptly shot. He felt the warm back-splatter, but he didn't mind. For all he cared, it was just game he'd planted a bullet into, because that's all they were—vicious animals that took everything from him, and seeing Matthew's grief manifest on Lovino's face was more than enough reason to be just as violent as them.

Across the room, Arthur had found Yao and Kiku wrestling with Nate and didn't waste time in pouncing on him, subduing him. "Strangle him!" he shouted, raging beyond all reason. He would do it if his burned hands had the strength—he would wring the man's neck until all that was left was noodle. He would dig his thumbs into those hateful eyes and press his nails into them until blood ran down the boy's cheeks, because this was not happening right now, this _was not_ happening. No one could have died right now, no one they _cared about_ , but Nate just might.

Kiku, who was astride Nate, did as he was told while Yao and Arthur held down Nate's flailing limbs. Kiku wrapped his hands around him and searched for any sign that Nate was sorry… but those eyes remained stony and those snakebites parted as Nate smiled. His split lip coated the glinting silver with red. "Do it, old man. Kill like I do. You'll love it, won't you?"

Kiku couldn't stand to hear anything else from the venomous mouth and pressed down, looking away. But he couldn't look away and his eyes wandered back to the face again, paling before going blue, before the eyes looked like they were bulging, before the lips contracted and the face scrunched up as the ability to breathe was cut off. Kiku wanted so much for it to end, but it dragged on and on and on until, finally, those sinister eyes were empty and the body below him gave out.

Kiku was almost hyperventilating. So much was going on at once and he couldn't handle it all. Yao noticed how stricken he appeared and helped him off of the corpse, letting Kiku lean against him, cradling him. "Oh, Kiku, I'm sorry you had to do that. I'm so sorry."

By then most of them had found some sort of weapon and were brandishing it threateningly at Jeanne. But Jeanne was not fazed. In fact, she didn't show the slightest empathy toward the deaths of her companions. She was halfway up the stairs, holding Alfred by his hair. His blindfold had come off a bit, and he could see out of one eye—could see all the chaos and Gilbert bleeding across the room, not knowing if he was alive or dead with Lovino hunching over him and obstructing his view—but other than that, the conditions were still the same: Jeanne pressing the barrel of the gun to his head, and everyone else watching uselessly.

Jeanne shook her head. "Look at you all, angry because we killed one of you. You will get shit sympathy from me when you let plenty of your people die in the streets this way every day since the Uprising began. Acting like you have one speck of humanity left in you—what a fucking joke. You're above all of us; why should you give a damn if one citizen died? Well, now we're above _you._ And expect what you gave. I learned not to give a shit from you. This man I have is nothing but an ant to exterminate before going for the whole nest. This is what humanity has become—are you proud of what you created?"

No one answered. No one had to, no one wanted to. Because this woman was beyond evil, and what she said wasn't all a lie. Jeanne shrugged nonchalantly, as if she didn't notice she had at least six guns ready to blow her head off if she happened to make a wrong move. Ivan tried to penetrate her mind, but he found it clouded now, and he was soon lost. He had been trying to lure the gun out of her hand since this whole thing began, but he was so stressed and distracted he barely got anywhere. So he returned to himself, defeated.

"Lambs led to slaughter," she said calmly, brushing away some of Alfred's hair with her gun. The American shuddered. "More like rats led to poison."

And she shot.

Ivan lost his breath for a moment, and it took only a moment for Jeanne to release Alfred and race up the staircase. Alfred tumbled down the stairs and Ivan forgot Jeanne and her gun and ran to him.

"Alfred?" Ivan could feel his chest constrict as he dug his fingers into his clothing and snatched the blindfold from his face. "Alfred? Пожалуйста."

Alfred opened his eyes, pale and shocked. He expected to be dead. The bullet had whizzed right by his ear and he was dizzy and close to fainting from the experience.

"Y-yeah," he said tremulously and wiggled around a bit. He frowned. "My wrists kinda hurt."

Ivan wanted to laugh, but all that came out was an overwhelmed sob.

* * *

Translations:

 _Was_?-What?

 _Что_?-What?

 _Дерьмо_ -Shit

 _Пожалуйста_ -Please

A Word From the Writer: Wow, shit just got real. Who knew Jeanne could be capable of anything so violent? Well, I'm not lying this time. Prussia is dead. _More_ than dead. Half his head is blown off, so I'm pretty sure he's gone. Such an abrupt and bloody way to go... but, hey, gotta increase the brutality or else what kind of villains would the Organization be? Still, can't help feeling sorry for Romano. One of my most favorite pairings right there. Well, now at least Canada won't be the only one depressed. But England didn't get put in any sort of dire danger like I usually put him in. That's a plus, at least.

Feel better? Nah, I didn't think so.


	85. Midnight

**I pulled up a flashback just to torment Germany. I'm just despicable.  
**

Warning: Angst, memories, grief. Just overall sad feels.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Midnight**

As soon as Ivan untied Alfred's wrists he bolted up the stairs in a fury. He could vaguely hear Alfred calling after him, but he didn't bother to acknowledge him. The only thing he cared about was finding Jeanne and ripping her limb from limb when he did.

Ivan knew she couldn't have gone far and his hearing was rendered acute from all the adrenaline rushing through his system. He heard feet moving across the floor down the hall, and then glass shattered. He picked up his pace, practically flying down the hall until he reached the end room and rushed toward the broken window. He peered out, putting his hands on the windowsill and feeling shards of glass pierce his palms. But that barely mattered. He surveyed the yard, the road, the other houses, and he could find no sign of her. He reached out with his mind, aggressively searching, but only came up with the scattered, monotonous thoughts of stray dogs and the raccoon they had encountered earlier. How could she have escaped that quickly? There was something not right about Jeanne. He balled his hands into fists, feeling blood ooze out between the fingers, knuckles white.

"You _bitch_!" he yelled, before turning on his heel and marching back downstairs, fuming. But all of his anger was forgotten when he heard Lovino's pained cries.

Everyone was gathered around Gilbert and Lovino was crouched closest of all, pant legs soaked in his lover's blood. His hands were grabbing at Gilbert, pulling, shaking.

"Why did you do it, you stupid fucking bastard?" Lovino growled at him, but he couldn't keep his voice and sobbed. "What the fuck am I supposed to do now, dammit?" He lowered his forehead to Gilbert's bloodied chest. "Don't fucking leave me, please."

Ludwig, meanwhile, was standing over his brother and wiping furiously at his eyes. He was pale and visibly shocked, staring at nothing. "The fool died for me… Mein Gott, he's gone."

"I could have killed that sonofabitch," Lovino said, torturing himself further. "I could have, but I fucking missed. Even when I don't run away, I'm still a fuck up, dammit!"

This couldn't be happening.

Not again, not here, not now. How could history repeat itself so quickly and so violently familiar? Lovino withdrew into himself, groping for any reason as to why all his lovers ended up this way. They had been so happy. It wasn't until after Gilbert was dead that Lovino knew just how much he loved the man. He could feel his heart breaking, and it wasn't right, it was too nostalgic… too much like how it felt when Toni was taken from him.

And it was too much, oh God, it was just too much. Lovino wanted to punch through a wall, but at the same time he wanted to crumble into himself and just lay there, not talking, not seeing, not hearing, not acknowledging all the grief that was inside him. Maybe everyone would give up on him, just leave him there to die beside Gilbert?

_Once again, I escaped death. But death feels like a much better option than this._

"Gil," Lovino whimpered and looked up at the pale, dead face, with its sallow tint and empty eyes and blood-soaked hair and that shit-eating grin it was lacking. "Please, don't leave. You bastard, don't leave me here." Lovino's fingers dug into the filthy clothes as hot tears rolled down his face, soaking the material. "You promised." _You fucking promised you'd be there, dammit._

There was a shuffling behind him, and Lovino looked up, just then realizing that everyone was watching him. Their eyes were glazed over and they were just staring, in shock. Lovino's eyes fell to Arthur, and he got an idea.

"Bring him back," Lovino snapped, though his tone lost its bite when he gave a sob-choked cough. It turned into a desperate plea. "Fucking bring him back."

Arthur at first didn't know what Lovino was talking about. But when he did, he could feel his heart sink to his toes. "I'm sorry, Lovino."

Lovino felt tears pushing at his eyes again, fingers clutching Gilbert's clothing like it was all that could keep him sane. "Don't say that, bastard…"

"Magic only goes so far. There are three things it cannot affect: fate, true love, and death. Once a soul has passed on, it has been claimed by a higher power and cannot be taken back. I'm sorry, Lovino. There's nothing I can do."

Lovino couldn't believe it. His eyes snapped to Ivan, but the man only confirmed the fact by shaking his head. "Is true."

Lovino's eyes fell to Gilbert and his broken body, and he began to sob again. "No, no, he can't be gone. Goddammit, he can't be fucking _gone_." He buried his face into Gilbert's stomach, feeling how cold he was, his blood smeared all over him. He didn't want to leave Gilbert. It would be so very wrong to leave someone that you loved so dearly behind willingly.

No one knew what to do. Lovino was a hard shell to crack, and barely anyone had comforted him over their time as nations. They didn't know how he'd react to sympathy, but sympathy wasn't what he needed right then.

Then Feliciano, who had been crying too, knelt next to Lovino. "Lovi," he said shakily before pulling the Italian up and hugging him tightly. Lovino was resistant, hating every second of being away from Gilbert, but he eventually calmed and hugged back, burying his face in Feliciano's shoulder.

"Don't cry, fratello." Tears were streaming perpetually from Feliciano's own eyes, but he hated to see his brother cry.

"How can I not fucking cry, dammit?" Lovino hiccuped. "He's fucking gone."

Despite the stinging words, Feliciano held him tighter. "Shh, Lovino." Feliciano's eyes peered up to meet Ludwig's to gauge his reaction. The German just stared, pale, stricken, and not knowing what just happened. Gilbert had always been there, even when he was not a nation—loud, obnoxious, attention-seeking. Now that he was gone… things seemed too quiet. Finally, his mind slowed down and the reality of the situation hit him—hard. Ludwig recalled their grim conversation on the plane they'd escaped in from the Bundestag so very long ago.

Gilbert had been only scarred then, with glass from the cupola, but he had gone worryingly quiet. Ludwig had asked him what was wrong. He hadn't seen Gilbert think so much in years.

 _"If something happens,"_ he'd said, and the usual comic spark had left his eyes. _"If we're cornered and we're in danger, I want you to do what I say."_

Ludwig had been alarmed and offended at once. He was the one who had to constantly babysit his older brother, why was he suddenly the one to be ordered around? _"And what would you say?"_

 _"Run."_ Gilbert had fixed him with a stern stare, and the expression had stricken Ludwig. He opened his mouth to protest, but Gilbert continued, _"Don't say you won't. West, you have a responsibility to survive. You're a country. I'm not. My life is not as important as yours."_

Ludwig was shocked. _"You're not worthless, East—"_

_"That's not what I'm saying. West, I don't care what you say. If someone goes after you, I'm going to put my life on the line to make sure you stay alive."_

Ludwig shook his head. _"You idiot. I can take care of myself. You don't need to protect me."_

_"I won't. But don't make me promise not to try when the situation presents itself. I'm not a country anymore, but I am a brother. At least let me have that."_

_Well you fucking got it, you damn idiot,_ Ludwig thought, but he could not bring himself to be angry with Gilbert. Not when he was lying dead and bloody at his feet because he gave his everything to save him.

 _I should have known,_ Ludwig thought. _The cupola at the Bundestag… he saved me, and I should have known he would do it again._

Ludwig didn't want to cry. He never partook much in emotions, because they just got in the way of logic. But he couldn't deny that he felt rather hollow and it felt like a rock had been jammed down his throat, blocking his airway, making his throat sore with suppressed, choked cries. To distract himself, he took control again. He turned to Ivan. "Did you find her?"

Ivan's eyes snapped up to meet his, surprised that he was speaking. He shook his head and the defeat and frustration was evident in his gaze. Ludwig felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Ludwig, rest," Arthur said, blinking back tears.

Everyone saw right through him in the end. Ludwig was expressionless, gaunt, eyes vacant and voice hoarse. And Ludwig wasn't sorry for it. It took everything he had to even speak, and Feliciano looked up at him, extending a hand. "Luddy."

Ludwig took his hand and crouched down over Gilbert's body, only now getting a true look at him. Before, he had been standing so far above him he could block out how horrible the scene was. But closer…

"Scheiße." Ludwig felt his face grow unbearably hot and his eyes stung, cheeks moistening. He hid his face in his hands, fingers pulling at his own hair to distract from the pain of grief. "For G-Gott's sake, someone close his eyes." He couldn't do it himself. He couldn't bear the thought of peering into those dead eyes and being faced with the fact that the idiot who had always been there, the one who he had constantly thought of as more of an annoyance than a brother, had died because he, Ludwig, had been in danger.

So Francis bent down to do it, but when Gilbert's dead face filled his vision, all he could do was stay there, bent over, his vision swimming with tears. "I am sorry, mon ami." Gilbert's skin was so cold to the touch. All the vivacious life in him had been leeched out. It was hard for Francis to accept that both his best friends in the world had died, but it gave him just one more reason to make it so no one else he cared about became a victim as well. "I will fix this," he promised before brushing his lips over the chilled forehead, hands passing over his dead friend's eyelids to close them. He could still taste the salty sweat of the Prussian. He could smell the metallic stench of his blood pooling around him. The memory of Gilbert's life was suffocating.

Matthew had been the one who had shot down Marvin, but it could just as easily have been Francis. He could have been the one to snatch up the discarded weapon from off the floor, aim it at the Goliath's back, and pounded three holes into it. But he hadn't, and it was the fact that he had been so frozen by the scene unfolding before him that he could not save the life of his close friend, that made him feel guiltier than anything else. He felt a certain degree of responsibility for what happened to Gilbert, and the grief that came with that was a weight greater than letting his country down as a whole. It seemed that even after he learned to react when things looked to be heading down a bad path, he still couldn't do what needed to be done. Once again, he had failed.

"That woman couldn't have just disappeared," Alfred said under his breath, and he caught Arthur's eye. Alfred's gaze was clouded and wet, but he was more frustrated than distraught. Frustrated that such horrible, unforgiving human beings could be the product of his ideals, and as a result the killers of his companion. What Jeanne had said had struck a nerve in him. He knew what he did was not always right, but then again what wasn't right wasn't always one option among many. He'd done some shitty things in his life, most of which he didn't care to think about or account for, but now, he figured, was the time that he might as well accept that he was tainted. Everyone was. That was what living did to you, but then again, not everyone could be born as the embodiment of a nation and its decisions. So, really, did their lives matter more than the rest or were they simply a scourge on the face of the earth, in the way of what everyone really wanted? Judging by what Alfred had experienced so far since the Uprising occurred, he suspected the latter was the best assumption.

So, since Alfred couldn't do anything more than stand there and stare at what one of his people—the monsters of his creation, as it seemed—did to them, not as countries, but as other human beings, he looked to Arthur for guidance. And Arthur knew that expression very well, for he had seen it many a time on the young, determined face, but the words never seemed to reach Alfred's lips. His gaze was all Arthur needed.

"She's nowhere near here," Arthur replied. "I can't sense her." It was certainly odd for a mortal to have the ability to vanish so fast without leaving a trace of her presence behind. Arthur's subconscious told him that it was probably from his senses being muddled by recent events or that his magic was just no good anymore since the little event with the fire, but a snake of foreboding coiled in his stomach nonetheless. He swallowed dryly and decided to speak his mind. For once, he was not ashamed to be bewildered. "I don't know how she did it, but something is certainly wrong with her. Something I cannot place."

"Da," Ivan said, his rage boiling down to a simmer. He stood with her arms crossed over his chest, his blood-stained scarf wrapped around his neck and shoulders, littered with tears and bullet holes. He looked every bit a savage as they all were. This was their mantra now: _the more human we become, the greater the beasts inside us grow_. And when they are unleashed, well, then this shit happens. "I could not penetrate her mind like before." Ivan sounded guilty about his actions earlier, about believing every word a stranger said just because he had invaded her mind and went through her memories. And Arthur couldn't blame him. "Something dark is inside her, darker than Agramon,"—the very name made Arthur stiffen—"but foreign. I have never felt such energy before in my life, not even from a demon." And that was saying something, because Ivan had lived much longer than any normal magic wielder and knew more than perhaps all the mortal magical population combined (and maybe could even compete with Arthur).

Lovino snapped his head up from his brother's shoulder and barked, "Who gives a shit about the fucking bitch? Gilbert is dead, and all you can think about is that snake of a woman? Fuck you!" He couldn't maintain his furious tone and was once again dissolved into sobs. Feliciano's arms tightened around him and he shushed him, rocking him back and forth.

The outburst had nonetheless brought everyone to their senses. Jeanne was outgunned and far away enough not to be an immediate threat. They were all just ignoring the elephant in the room because it was a big, bloody, ugly elephant, and if they brought it up it would bring about the fact that they weren't even competent enough to keep each other alive. So how then could they ever put the pieces of their shattered world back together?

"He's right," Yao said. He still had his arms wrapped around Kiku, the younger man's gaze distant, staring myopically at the dark pool of blood that surrounded Gilbert's body. Yao's eyes fell on Arthur, who was now once again their guide since Ludwig was compromised with grief. Yao, for his own part, had Kiku to deal with. "What should we do?"

Arthur knew exactly what he was talking about and swallowed forcefully. He looked once again at the three quivering forms crouched around the empty shell of a man whose presence was wanted more than anything and said, "First we bury our dead. Then we turn this house upside down for supplies. This wretched, damnable house."

* * *

There was no funeral. There was no time. There was only a twilit sky littered with stars that were not muddled by city lights and Gilbert's body laying untouched in the house as they scouted for a good spot in the backyard to bury him. It was as if they were afraid to touch him, for when they would feel his cold skin they would know he wasn't just sleeping.

Yet, for all of the searching, for all of the careful scouting of makeshift burial plots, by the time Ivan's spade point was thrust into the earth, Lovino shouted, "Stop!" Ivan did so and Lovino tried to keep from crying with all those eyes on him. "I can't… we can't bury him here. Not where he…" He choked and the rest was left unspoken, though everyone knew what he was trying to say.

Not where he had been shot. Not where everything had gone so wrong. Not where they all realized they could barely help themselves nonetheless the mess of a world they helped create. Not where all the hope of them making it to the capital alive was so violently dashed.

And instead of arguing with Lovino over how much time they had been wasting doing something that would not be followed through with at the moment, they all understood and Arthur said, "Very well."

And so they filed back into the house, Feliciano guiding Lovino to the couch where the Italian sat hunched over with his head in his hands for the longest time, trying to come to terms with what had just happened. The others explored the house, practically ransacking it, not caring in the least for the nonsensical things they had once considered valuable. They split up to search for supplies, leaving the grieving Lovino to the couch and Ludwig standing over his brother. Eventually the German swallowed the knot in his throat and crouched, running his hands up and down Gilbert's sides, patting him down. As much as he hated to do it, he knew someone needed to. They couldn't just put Gilbert in the ground with valuable weapons and supplies on him.

The smell of blood was sickening, and Ludwig hated how every time he looked at his brother's face he winced. The wound on the side of his head was horrific, even by Ludwig's standards. He'd seen many a man with half their skull blown off, but none had affected him half as much as seeing his own brother in such a state.

Thankfully, Ludwig didn't have to search long. Most of Gilbert's pockets were empty, and his weapon was still laying on the floor across the room. He didn't have the heart to retrieve it… not yet. He was afraid that he might lose his senses if he touched something that had once been in Gilbert's hand, something that could have saved his life if not dropped.

Ludwig's hand checked one last pocket—the innermost of Gilbert's coat—and his fingers brushed something peculiar. Paper. Folded, crinkled, yellowed with age. Ludwig opened it up and regarded the fading ink, written in the characteristic sloppy scrawl of his brother.

_Kleiner Bruder,_

_France and Spain are getting restless. You don't know how much they want to wring England's neck! We have made camp for the night and I have just been informed that England has deserted Austria! He had his fight with France and then he just bails like that's all he really wanted to do. And Russia has dropped out because he's having some issues with his royalty or whatever. Glad to see that creep go, kesese! Austria makes such unawesome friends. What an idiot! Anyway, I am going to wake up bright and early to kick his ass once and for all. He should have known not to mess with the awesome, almighty Prussia! Then again… I hear he has sent out pleas to Hungary to help him but… she's a chick, so what have I got to lose? Kesesesese!_

_But don't mind all this war stuff. I'm going to be fine, since, you know, I'm more awesome at it than anyone else. I'm so going to win, so don't worry! I know you want to be here to witness my awesomeness, but you are so tiny still and since you weren't born as awesome as I was, I have to teach you military tactics and stuff. You just mind your nanny and go to sleep on time and… no drinking any of my beer! I need it for when I get home so I can awesomely celebrate and… it's not good for kids or something… so just don't touch them, got it?_

_I know you're missing my awesomeness!_

_The Awesome Me_

There was another letter behind it, this one obviously written in adult hand (possibly the nanny's) but with a child's voice.

_Bruder,_

_Don't worry about England. I saw him walk past here the other day and he isn't looking too well. Maybe it's that other little boy across the ocean that has him so tired? At least I'm close to you so you don't have to travel so far to see me!_

_But I miss you, bruder. I don't like it when you go away to fight. Then I can't see you and I don't know how you are. I hope you aren't hurt. If you are, come back home immediately so I can fix you._

_Please come home soon so we can play soldiers again… even though you always win._

_Luddy_

_P.S. The nanny locked the beer away, so I can't drink any._

Ludwig couldn't help but smile at the letters. He remembered when he'd received the one from Gilbert and sent the other. He had been so young… what a couple hundred years old? It was during the War of the Austrian Succession. Holy Rome hadn't even been gone yet, and he was kind of ticked that there was someone who was combining parts of his territory to make a future nation… All that he could remember was that he was barely out of his toddler phase (Gilbert hadn't been much of a role model parent as evidenced by his letter) and that he was so eager to go out in the world and meet others like him and be strong and be able to fight whoever he wanted just like Gilbert. Of course when he grew older, he realized how foolish that mindset was (thank Gilbert again for that). But he also recalled how he had been so frightened (secretly frightened, because Gilbert said it was unawesome to be a crybaby) whenever Gilbert went to war. In the early years of his life, he only knew Gilbert; Holy Rome was still around, but his jealousy kept him away. Gilbert had been the closest thing to a parent that Ludwig had ever known, and he hadn't wanted to lose him, didn't know how he could handle all the other big, scary nations who would surely come after him if he lost Gilbert's protection…

His vision blurred and he blinked, wetness trailing down his face. Where had that fear gone after he had grown? He had always wondered this. He used to expect it was just because Gilbert, while cocky, was a pretty good fighter and he would always be there no matter what happened because he was, well… Gilbert. But now Ludwig knew that his fear for Gilbert had always been there, smothered by a mountain of self-convinced certainty. And now those childhood fears were hitting him like a freight train with a million and one cars. It was too much.

Ludwig took a deep breath and bit his lip, willing his eyes to run dry. But no amount of will could ever compose him with what he pulled out of Gilbert's pocket next.

It was a watch. A small pocket watch, dusty and tarnished and rusted with age. Ludwig had chosen it especially when he was younger because it could fit in his small hand. The sight of it took his breath away and he was afraid to open it, afraid to relive the memories. But he clicked it open anyway.

* * *

"… _And then the awesome knight defeated the unawesome dragon and saved the broa—I mean, damsel, kesese. The end."_

_Ludwig frowned. "Um, bruder… why did you make the dragon sound like England?"_

_"What? What are you talking about, Luddy?" Gilbert said with a shit-eating grin. "All dragons sound like that. That's why they're so annoying to slay, kesesese!"_

_"Oh." Ludwig's eyes wandered to his pillow and then back to Gilbert and he could already feel the tears pushing at the backs of his eyes. "Bruder, can't you stay a little longer?"_

_Gilbert snorted. "Of course not! You think that drag—I mean England is going to wait for me to fight him? No way! Besides, the awesome always get there first." Then in a quieter voice he muttered, "And King Frederick would skin me alive if I was late…"_

_"Please stay," Ludwig begged, tiny fingers digging into Gilbert's ruffled sleeve and looking up at him with wide, wet blue eyes. "Please. Until I go to sleep?"_

_Gilbert rolled his eyes. "You're such a crybaby. Honestly, I wonder if any of my awesome lessons are getting to you."_

_"_ Please _, bruder?"_

_Gilbert stared at him for just a few moments more before something in him stirred and he looked away. "Fine. Just… don't tell anyone."_

_Ludwig smiled. "I won't!" And he set about turning down his bed and making room for Gilbert to lay beside him. As he was adjusting his pillow, something heavy slipped out and rolled across the floor. Gilbert immediately stood to examine it._

_"What is this?" He stooped to pick it up off the floor._

_Ludwig lunged forward, hands reaching out to grab it. "No!"_

_Gilbert curled his fingers around it and held it away. "What? Why do you have a watch?"_

_"No, give it back!"_

_"Kids don't keep track of time."_

_"It wasn't for me," Ludwig pouted, crossing his arms. His face was red and he was staring at his pillow as if angry at it for spilling his secret. "It was a gift for you. I was going to give it to you before you left."_

_Gilbert looked down at the watch in his hand and frowned. "What would you give me a watch for? Beer would have been the best gift, kesesese!" He clicked it open and his frown deepened. "The time is not even set right. Is it broken? How unawesome!"_

_Ludwig squirmed uncomfortably on the bed. "It's not broken. The nanny showed me how to wind it, and I set it to midnight."_

_"Midnight? What for?"_

_"I…" Ludwig's face was glowing by now. "I want to get more involved with your campaigns and… since I can't be there, I… I-I thought that by winding it to midnight, you could click it on whenever a battle starts, you know, to time it. Then I will know how long you'll be fighting for… how long you will be in danger." The last few words came out as an embarrassed whisper._

_Gilbert stared at the watch and chewed his lip._ Ludwig hadn't known what the expression was that Gilbert had worn then, but now that he returned to the memory he knew it had been guilt _. Gilbert felt bad for teasing Ludwig when the younger had only wanted to know more about Gilbert. The man's lips twitched, as if wanting to crack a warm smile, but that was simply too out of character for him. So he pocketed the watch and sat on the bed._

_"Luddy, you don't have to be scared. Do you know why?"_

_Ludwig lowered his eyes and shook his head._

_Gilbert continued, "Well, for one thing, it's unawesome." Then the cockiness disappeared from his voice. "And because I'll always come back to you. I mean, honestly, how could I not? When you have this much awesome it's kind of impossible to be defeated right?"_

_Ludwig peered up at him. "Holy Rome is dying."_

_Gilbert blinked at him. "What? How did you know that?"_

_"Austria says it sometimes. He says that when he dies, he'll take everything Holy Rome had for himself."_

_Gilbert sighed. "Lud, Holy Rome is… a little sick right now. But he will get better…" Gilbert chewed his lip and patted Ludwig's pillow. "Lay down, now. I have a long day of traveling tomorrow and if you don't get to sleep, I won't."_

_Ludwig slid beneath the covers while Gilbert took off his hat and lay back on the bed beside him. He smelled of dirt and horse and blood (all the awesome smells, Gilbert claimed), but Ludwig couldn't care as long as his brother was beside him._

_Ludwig couldn't sleep that night. He just lay on his back with his eyes closed and chest rising and falling shallowly. But he kept his eyelids cracked open just a bit. Just enough to see Gilbert turning the pocket watch over in his fingers, staring at it for a good hour. When he finally began to doze, Ludwig felt an arm wrap around him._

_"I don't like leaving you," Gilbert murmured as he drifted off. "But I don't want you to end up like Holy Rome." There was guilt in his voice. "I can't help him, not anymore. But I can help you. As long as I live, I won't let what's happening to Holy Rome happen to you. I failed once… but this time, I'll be an awesome big bruder. I promise."_

* * *

"I can't believe you kept this," Ludwig muttered, pressing the watch to his chest. _You said you'd always come back. Where are you when I need you most, East?_ He snuffled and wiped his eyes with his palm. "Verdammt."

_I may be grown, but I still need you._

Nothing could be accomplished with tears. He told Feliciano this time and again, but he realized now how hard it was to stop them. He stood before he could break down any further and snatched up a blanket hanging over the top of the couch, throwing it over Gilbert. He couldn't look at him in such a state anymore.

He took out the pocket watch and stared at it, clicking it open. Inside was an old picture of Ludwig, so young still. The time was set to midnight.

* * *

Translations:

 _Scheiße_ -Shit

 _Verdammt_ -Dammit

(Um... is it okay if I just don't include these in the translations anymore? I feel like they're sorta common knowledge and it's getting monotonous...)

A Word From the Writer: Sadness and then more sadness. And we get to see Germany cry. What does that look like? I just try to imagine Arnold Schwarzenegger tearing up, but then that makes me giggle. So... don't imagine him, 'kay?

... You are, aren't you? Verdammt, mein sides!


	86. Back to 'Normal'

**As if things couldn't get any crazier.  
**

Warning: Angst, insults, sad stuff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Back to 'Normal'**

A half hour later they all came together in the living room again, piling up whatever scant supplies they'd found. A few cans of soup and vegetables, some blankets for extra warmth, shirts, an old, dust-ridden fur coat, a couple boxes of ammunition, pills. Everything else—all the tools left in the shed (which wasn't much), weapons, rope, anything useful, really—had already been taken by looters before them or the owners of the house.

Kiku stared. "Such small stock for so much risk."

Alfred scoffed. "We're lucky we even found those cartridges. If they hadn't been hidden between some boxes and the wall this stuff would be all the more worthless."

"None of this is worthless," Ivan said. He knew what worthless meant more than all of them. "We must pack them up." He knelt to gather the things into his arms and grunted, wincing as pain shot up from his wound. That bullet had really cut through his muscle.

Alfred's hand immediately latched onto his arm and tugged him back. "No, Ivan. Don't strain yourself."

Ivan felt all of the stress and fear and rage coiling in his gut at once. Before he could stop it, it spilled over. He yanked his arm out of Alfred's grip and glared. "I know how to take care of myself. I don't need you constantly worrying over me."

Alfred blinked. Not knowing what else to say, he gave a sort of weak laugh, "Well, you obviously can't if you keep scrunching your face up like that with every move you make."

It was the wrong thing to say, and Alfred knew it as soon as the words were out of his mouth. "I am not a child. I am older than you—I should be the one worrying about _you_."

Alfred's brow furrowed. "I may be younger, but that doesn't mean I'm completely helpless."

"And how would I know that you're even capable of taking care of yourself?" Ivan flashed back and by now they had everyone's attention. "Go back through your own history for once and own up to your mistakes and imperfections. When Arthur left you, you went to shit. And now we're in a whole new fucking world that none of us have even come close to adapting to, and you go and say 'I can take care of myself.' Right. You'll probably be the first to scew up and then you'll definitely be fucked. And all because you think you're so fucking superior to anyone and anything. Why did I ever think all this shit would change you? You're still the hapless, blundering lackwit you were three hundred years ago!"

Alfred was silent and staring, and everyone in the room seemed to have stopped breathing. Even Lovino had ceased his crying to listen.

The words stung worse than Alfred would like to admit, but he was determined to get his bit in. Ivan should know by now to expect plenty of retaliation from Alfred after insulting him. "No, _you're_ the one who hasn't changed. You tell me to look into my past… you've looked so much into your own past that you're stuck in it!" Alfred's voice gradually rose in decibel until anyone standing on the street before the house could hear him—if anyone was there. "You live it every day because you're _scared._ You think I don't see it? I do—I'm not as oblivious as you believe. I know you enough to see when you're frightened, but obviously you don't know enough about me to discern that. Everyone here is scared shitless. You're not above that. Oh, sure, I ride my high horse every now and again, but at least I have the sense to get down when the _whole fucking world_ is in danger!" His voice dropped an octave and his eyes narrowed. His hands were balled into fists, and he wanted nothing more than to punch Ivan's lights out—then maybe he would realize how stupid he was being. "I've been giving everything to you, and I must be a fucking moron, huh? I must be the biggest dumbass in the world to think this would ever work. I guess you're right—I am a lackwit. For thinking I could worry about you just a fucking bit without you pushing me away like you've pushed everyone away for centuries!" Alfred was shaking now, his throat scratchy and his eyes wet. He couldn't believe he was crying for this jerk—what had they even had? What had he been expecting? In the end, it was just a tension-charged fuck, as always. Nothing had changed between them.

Alfred knew he was going to hit something if he didn't leave, but he wanted to give Ivan something to chew on before he left. "Don't even think to use your past as an excuse for your behavior. Everything's changed now, if you haven't noticed. And, goddammit, Ivan, you keep building up too many damn walls for me to break down. You're so insecure about your capabilities, you're cracking under the strain. You think I can't tell? You think I'm an idiot? Well, fuck you!" And Alfred did leave, but not without leaving a fist-shaped hole in the wall… a testament to the one he'd left back in the airport where things were normal between them and not complicated and painful. His knuckles hurt like hell and he wanted to cry, but he remained stoic the whole time climbing the stairs to the second level. He felt so much like leaving the house completely, but he knew how foolish that would be. Most of all, he wished that the goddamn ache in his heart would fuck off for good.

But that fucking feeling of Ivan holding him so tightly—like his life depended on it—was stark and relentless in his mind.

_"Stay with me."_

Alfred entered the back room and slammed the door shut, dropping down to the floor as his legs grew weak and burying his face in his hands.

_How do you expect me to stay with you if you keep running away, Ivan?_

_I can't believe you're breaking my heart, you bastard._

* * *

Alfred couldn't punch Ivan, so Arthur did it for him. It was enough for Ivan to lift his downcast eyes to glare.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Arthur snapped, no longer intimidated by the Russian's scowl. "The boy may be a git, but that doesn't give you any excuse to be such an arsehole to him!"

Ivan's voice was low and his eyes empty as he said, "Don't touch me."

Arthur did not, but he wasn't about to just let Ivan go. "Not to mention you're starting shit after all that's already happened. What were you hoping to achieve?" Ivan glared, unperturbed, with a look that clearly told Arthur to fuck off out of his business. The Briton shook his head, ignoring the warning. "How can you hope to fix everything when you stay the way you are?"

"I'm…" Ivan began, determined to stick up for himself, but he couldn't come up with anything. What _had_ that been about anyway? What had he been trying do? He didn't exactly know, but he didn't like the results.

Arthur sensed Ivan's regret and decided a change of subject was due. He turned to address them, trying to ignore the covered form of Gilbert that lingered in the corner of his eye and the blood that pooled placidly beneath him. "We need to leave. That much is certain. This is likely a halfway point for Organization members crossing the country or a base for those who linger in the area." He looked at Lovino, his heart breaking for the man. "We can't leave him here."

"We won't," Ludwig answered for him, because Gilbert was his brother. Hell if he was going to let someone tell him how to properly put him to rest. But still, Lovino had been his lover. If only a for a short time Gilbert had come to care for the man just as much as he did Ludwig. That much had been obvious. Despite Lovino's less than favorable temperament, Ludwig knew Gilbert would want him to have a part in this. Lovino was watching him from his place being held by his brother on the couch. The look in his eyes said more than what could be put into words. "You will choose a better place for him than this."

All Lovino could do was nod. His chest hurt—whether it was his heart or from him crying so much, he couldn't tell. Had he cried this much for Toni? Once again, Lovino had been cowardly. And he was paying for it twofold. He nodded shakily. "Si." More words bubbled in his throat, ached to get out, to describe to everyone how he'd seen Gilbert, how the world should perceive him, but no one could ever truly describe him. There was simply too much to say in words too elaborate to fully comprehend.

The house stank of blood and discharged bullets. It reeked of the reversal of human nature. Yao helped carry the supplies gathered to the abandoned vehicles out front, keeping one eye on Kiku. The man was helping as well, but with an obvious stony silence. Yao knew it was the poison of a clouded mind. The closer they got to the center of the growing new world, the more they were confronted with the fact that no one could turn back from this. There would be a new order, a new standard, a new everything. And they were just the ones that were blocking the way. _Should_ they be allowed to live? If they were the only ones still hanging onto the morals that have long passed out of existence, why were they still alive?

Everyone was more or less pondering these questions, and they were almost robotic as they contributed to escaping the house. Another house, another monster. Civilization was the noose and they themselves were the unintentional hangmen. They were all just as responsible for Gilbert's death as was the person who actually pulled the trigger. There would be no trust anymore. Everyone was an enemy and everywhere was dangerous. And they were merely expendable human beings facing the rest of the cruel world. Were they at the edge yet? Was the precipice crumbling beneath their feet even then? One step toward the capital was another toward the cliff. Below it was oblivion. They would not be remembered if they fell—not if they went without a fight.

Ivan scoffed to himself. All those years of thinking the same thing after all that had happened to him, and what did he show for it? He'd trusted a monster. He'd been the death of Gilbert. He was a horrible lover.

Ivan didn't know what happened, but when Alfred brought up his injury, he'd snapped. It only reaffirmed the fact that Ivan wasn't invincible and that he might die and leave Alfred to whatever cruel fate may befall him. He couldn't protect him like he wanted, and it pissed him off. Try as he might, he couldn't stop the shadows of the cruel tape reel of potential memories Agramon had showed him. Of Alfred and a million and one ways he could die.

 _I, I, I…_ Ivan went over the word in his head. _I want, I want. It's been about me this whole time. I wanted Alfred, so I convinced him to love me. I wanted to make him mine, so I convinced him to sleep with me. I wanted to be loved, so I made him my personal caretaker. Take, take, take. I take and I don't care what he thinks. I love him, and I want him to be with me, but he's never said he loves me without prior prompting. I don't know if it's fake. It's been fake before. Years upon years of us seeing each other, a smile hiding my disappointment as he walked away every time. I can't keep that smile up anymore. I'm taking his words too literally. But I'm afraid to lose him. I don't want to be abandoned._

Arthur had fetched Alfred from the upstairs bedroom he had been hiding in. When Ivan met Alfred's eyes, the younger promptly looked away, ignoring him even as they both lifted Gilbert's body into the trunk of one of the vans. Ivan closed the back and Alfred left before he could say a word. When it was time to leave, Ivan took the wheel in the same van, watching Alfred as he began to walk toward the vehicle, but as soon as he saw him sitting there, he turned on his heel in favor of the truck.

 _I wanted to love him, so I forced my feelings on him. He's playing with me._ At this, Ivan's knuckles went white around the steering wheel. _This whole time he's been stringing me along, just like he has enjoyed doing all those times before._

_Why do I still love him?_

He was startled as the door opened and Matthew was standing there staring down at him. "Get out."

Ivan was confused. "Nyet, I will—"

"You're not fit to drive," Matthew insisted, his gaze even and smoldering. "Out."

There was a vicious undertone to Matthew's voice that told Ivan he wasn't happy with the way he had spoken to his brother. Ivan decided that he'd rather submit than start another fight that would push Alfred further away from him.

He let go of the wheel and slid out of the driver's seat. Matthew wasted no time in taking his place, starting up the engine even before Ivan opened the back door to get in. Ludwig took up the passenger's seat, quiet as ever. And in the back sat Ivan, once again alone and ill-favored.

* * *

Alfred stared out the window, only half watching the scenery go by.

 _What the fuck was I thinking?_ he kept asking himself. _The asshole could never care. He just likes to make me hurt. And now he's really done it._ Alfred hated to admit it, but he could just curl up and die with how hurt he was. _This is by far the worst thing you've ever done to me, Ivan. What had I been expecting from a man whose heart doesn't even beat?_ That was a lie. A terrible one, and Alfred knew it, but he didn't want to acknowledge it. Those nights as he lay with his body pressed against Ivan's, he had felt the man's heart fluttering in his chest, felt it go frantic whenever they were making love—no, fucking. Alfred got lost in the memory for a moment, recalling how delicately Ivan had touched him, how firmly he had held him afterward. He expelled them with a scoff. _Why did you have to be so damn good at convincing me? I can't believe I thought I was seeing another part of you. I can't believe I ever trusted you, you cold bastard. I hate you. I hate you so much._

He was frustrated at the tears that gathered in his eyes and trailed down his face. He shouldn't be crying for what they had—they hadn't had anything at all. It was just a trick, a cruel joke… and yet, his pant leg turned dark where the products of his dejection fell.

Something brushed over his hand and he looked down from the window to see a bandaged hand on his. He couldn't meet Arthur's face.

"Stop," he croaked.

Arthur's voice was low, not even turning his head to face him. "Stop what, Alfred?"

"Stop trying to comfort me. There's nothing wrong. I don't need to be comforted." He wiped his nose on his sleeve and resumed his silent staring.

Arthur gave a worried frown and took his hand back, choosing instead to place it in his lap. _You idiot,_ he wanted to say. _You pick up on nothing, do you?_ All those centuries of obvious desire on Ivan's part, of nearly every country cashing in on wagers to see if anything would happen between he and Alfred, and now this. Although Ivan would rather have shot himself in the foot than admit he loved Alfred years earlier, over the centuries he became negligent and his love for Alfred was plain with every look he gave the younger nation. At least to the older nations it was, since they had experienced more or less the same thing in their younger years. Granted, Ivan had a strange way of expressing his affection, but that didn't make him any less in love with Alfred. As more and more time passed with Alfred never noticing, Ivan became more infuriated with his ignorance. He'd done everything in his power to make Alfred realize, to gain Alfred's undivided attention. He hadn't known what else to do—violence was all he'd known to implement change. What he'd gotten in return was hate. Hate and rejection and a broken heart.

Arthur supposed Ivan might have secretly admired Alfred when he was starting to come into his own. Ivan was jealous that someone so young and cocky could achieve such success while he himself was drowning in turbulence. When Alfred was divided, Ivan was empathetic instead of cruel. He didn't want Alfred to turn out like him. He was always there, even if only in the background, and Alfred barely paid any mind to him until he interrupted his plans. To him, Ivan was a constant nuisance. To Ivan, Alfred was blind, arrogant, rash… and everything he could have been. No doubt it had crossed Ivan's mind at one point or another how he could have turned out if he had grown the way Alfred had. No matter what Alfred did or said or threatened, Ivan came back. Always a thorn in his side, always stubborn—always wanting of Alfred's attention.

Arthur saw all this and more and sat back, watching to see what would conspire between them. Quite honestly, he hadn't wanted Ivan anywhere near his former colony, but that was before he began to really watch Ivan. His mannerisms were less guarded around Alfred. And Arthur found himself mentally urging Ivan on. Alfred, after all, did have need of an authoritative figure in his life, since he just ignored Arthur.

 _I'm one to talk,_ Arthur thought. For centuries he and Francis had done the same dance and only now had united. Despite Arthur staunchly avoiding talk of relationships and sex with Alfred, had he possibly passed on his knack for tumultuous unions? _It would figure._

And did Lovino have it as well? It seemed likely. Here Arthur was thinking about living people when just behind them, stuffed into a sleeping bag in the back of a van, was the body of someone who was called Gilbert once. And in the van in front of that was someone who was once his lover, stuck on the wrong plane of existence. As annoying as Gilbert had been, Arthur had never wanted him gone. Everything was too quiet, too starkly real without him. In the end, Gilbert had finally matured enough to settle with Lovino. And Lovino had coped enough with Toni's death to accept his affections. Two very odd persons in a very common union. If Gilbert's death was not a sign that the world was broken, then what else could be?

Arthur glanced at Francis out of the corner of his eye. His hands were on the wheel, his eyes tiredly focused on the empty expanse of road, no doubt glad for the distraction of driving. _I won't lose you,_ Arthur promised for perhaps the billionth time. _You'd better not die after everything we've done together, or I'll kick your froggy arse._

Francis led them to the on ramp and punched it to eighty down the interstate. The other vehicles had no struggle keeping up.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Yup, I kinda had to break them up. Too much focus on them as a couple, so I had to go against my fangirl instincts and get rid of them. Will they get back together? And is driving around with a dead body in the back of the vehicle considered bad luck (you know, if it isn't a hearse)?

All this and more~


	87. Running in Place

**If already depressed, turn back now.  
**

Warning: Sad stuff, angst, FrUK and RusAme (non-explicit).

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Running in Place**

Alfred had told them to follow route 80/90, which would lead them in a wide skirt around Toledo and merge with route 80 outside Cleveland. From there, they would head southeast, taking route 70/76 past Pittsburgh to link with 270 that led into D.C. Their anxiety pushed them to drive all night into the next morning. Francis, whose hands were practically glued to the wheel, jumped as Arthur's voice cracked through the hours-long silence.

"Francis, you're nodding off."

"Hm?" Francis grunted, his eyelids feeling as if they were lifting dumbbells.

"Pull over. You need to sleep."

Francis regretfully parked on the shoulder, slumping with fatigue. The events of the day before had drained him significantly, and watching the dashed white lines on the road go by had made him all the more drowsy. Everyone else pulled in behind him.

Arthur looked down at Alfred who had fallen asleep leaning against the window, but had since been jostled to lay with his cheek pressed against Arthur's shoulder. Arthur brushed the stray hair back from his sleeping face, his skin still sticky with tears. He lay Alfred down in the seat, kissing him softly on the forehead (after making sure Francis wasn't looking) before opening the door and getting out.

When Arthur opened the driver's side door, Francis didn't move from his position with his arms propped up on the steering wheel and his face buried between them. "Come on, frog. Cut the engine. There's no way we can keep going without a little sleep."

Francis groaned before he turned the key and swung his legs outside the door. He raised himself on his legs, but the limbs buckled, the result of perpetually tense muscles following their leave from Chicago combined with gnawing grief. Arthur rushed forward to catch him, surprised that it seemed so instinctual to help the Frenchman by now. He could take solace in that, as he caught Francis with a huff at his heavy form (though it worried him that he felt significantly lighter than a few weeks ago and that his own strength was ebbing), pushing him back into the driver's seat. "On second thought, stay there. You won't really be of much use anyway." He turned to greet the others who were just getting out of the vans when his wrist was grabbed.

The fingers that clasped him were shaky and clammy and everything that made up the core of Francis's being. His head was ducked, and his matted hair covered his features. "I…" he began, but nothing would manifest but for a scratchy lump in his throat.

Arthur understood. Years of rivalry with Francis permitted him the insight he needed to know what he wanted and needed. Arthur took Francis's hand and clasped it with both of his own, tightly. "Je suis ici, Francis."

Francis's breath quivered with the return of words, though they were not meant for Arthur. "Je suis désolé, mon ami cher."

Arthur stared at him for a moment, the Frenchman still not lifting his head to meet his eyes. Then he said, "Back into the truck. It's rather cold out here." And he gave Francis's head a kiss before helping him back into the seat. Arthur didn't like how his partner's body melded instantly with the curves of the seat, as if it wished to become part of it, to never move again. Arthur hesitated, swallowing, before softly closing the door, pulling his coat up around his ears, and braving the chill wind to meet with the others.

The gusts were so strong that their skinny bodies were swept back and forth as if batted by an unseen force, the rushing air biting at their eyes and ears. Someone Arthur gleaned as Yao shouted and waved his arms as he approached. It was not even a whisper compared to the constant roar of the wind.

"Pardon?"

"… ere… camp here?"

"Yes!" Arthur shouted back, worried that the upper layer of his skin would be sheared off as he quickened his pace. "Here! We camp here tonight!"

There were no suggestions to sleep in the vehicles, although they would have made a more suitable place to rest, free from the near endless buffeting of icy prairie currents blowing mercilessly in from the west. There was no desire to sleep in the same place such evil had occupied not but a few hours earlier. They were all so drained from prior events that their bodies were ready to drop. No amount of rest they had gotten while traveling with Jeanne and her deceiving companions could make up for the fact that they had now lost two of their group: first Sadiq, and then Gilbert.

Where once was control, there was now a growing void. Whether it would swallow them up before the end none of them wanted to ponder.

As haggard as they were, they did not forget about Gilbert nor Sadiq. Somehow the grave they had left in place of Sadiq's missing body so many miles ago seemed insufficient to honor his memory. Matthew was unwilling to give up Sadiq's only remaining possession—the black bandana mask still wrapped around his arm. Matthew understood the importance of closure, but walking away from all that they had shared before his death was something that Matthew simply could not do.

So, they settled for a moment. It took a while, but they managed to use lighters to burn Sadiq's signature crescent and star into the bark of a wide tree. It's roots ran deep and its branches reached up, grasping for the moon. Afterward, Matthew carved _A Love That Will Last Forever—Mattie_ into the trunk, unable to admire his work for fear of breaking down again. Why was it that such a short love had so much of an impact on him?

In a clearing adjacent, they plotted Gilbert's grave below a tree. It looked ancient by all standards, the roots gnarled and breaching the soil in humps, its trunk weathered but sturdy. It split into two separate trunks, each going in a different direction. The lack of leaves meant the moonlight shone through the branches in stark, admirable streams.

Thus, they placed the giant below the giant—through weakness and power, Gilbert had always been a colossus wherever he went. The absence of his loud, obnoxious laugh brought the hollowness out in everything.

Ivan scooped out a grave, his thoughts empty and his stiff muscles adjusting to the now familiar ritual. Despite knowing Ivan possessed an injury, no one desired to help him—to be the grave digger. Ivan was numb to the pain anyway. This was becoming a far too common occurrence, and everyone knew that. It twisted their empty bellies to the point of sickness and darkened their minds with foreboding. After the grave was dug, Alfred and Ludwig went to fetch Gilbert, Ludwig insisting to help. The German's legs were shaking by the time they got back. Every step closer to that grave meant the closure of Gilbert's death. Ivan noticed Ludwig's struggle and offered his aid. Ludwig was too far gone in his grief to give him anymore than a strained grunt before he wobbled over to a tree for support, eyes watching as his brother was carried to a grave in a place they may never see again. This was his last goodbye.

Alfred did not meet the Russian's eyes the whole time they carried Gilbert's body. The man was making an obvious point of looking everywhere else but at Ivan. And, despite the corpse of one of their own heavy in his arms, Ivan found himself mourning over Alfred's retreat caused by the Russian's own selfish needs.

And still his needs were more important. And still Alfred was an imperceptive asshole. Not even the end of the world could bring them any closer. Ivan knew long ago that he would be alone. He'd always been alone. A product of his environment, he would be nothing more than an annoyance and an occasional fuck to Alfred. The one he loved most hated him immensely. What else had he been expecting? Everything was a struggle for him, so why did this hurt worse than all of the other horrible shit he had experienced?

Lovino was silent and stiff, watching with dead eyes as they lay Gilbert in the grave. He had cried all that he had out of him. All that was left of him was emptiness and a familiar sense of loss. He hated that it was familiar, and dually hated the fact that such a familiarity would return to him so terribly soon.

They all stood in silence and stared at the body. Gilbert's pale skin glowed as if made of moonlight. It was such a breathtaking sight that none of them wanted to say anything, as it would only lead to him being buried sooner.

Naturally, they all looked to Lovino and Ludwig to begin the obituary, but all there was was empty air. Ludwig felt crippled, and he clung to the tree, his lips quivering with a great effort to keep in sobs, his throat burning with an urge to vent. He held his head in his hand, the other pressed against the tree, nails digging into the bark. Lovino, meanwhile, stood there with a blank expression and myopic stare. He looked like a statue. Feliciano didn't know who the comfort more, so, conflicted, he remained where he was, trying his best not to burst into noisy tears.

They were all standing there awkwardly, not quite knowing how to begin, when suddenly Lovino turned on his heel… and left. He walked past the others without a sound or any form of acknowledgment. He walked right past Ludwig, who gave him a disbelieving glare.

"Lovino," Francis began with confusion. "Ami, where are you going? Aren't you—"

Lovino didn't seem to hear him as he continued on his way. Ludwig couldn't take it and gathered all of the anger gained from losing Gilbert to shout, "Get back here, you cold bastard! He was your lover. Don't you care for him at all?"

Lovino didn't even flinch nonetheless stop. His legs were ceaseless in their mission to get out. _Get out, get out, get out._ Lovino's empty thoughts were filled with this one mantra. _I have to get out._ He was running away from something he knew he could not outrun. It was useless, but Lovino felt that if he didn't get away he would never want to leave.

Ludwig's temper simmered over then. How dare he? Standing at the foot of his lover's grave, and what does he give Gilbert? Not a word, not even a tear. Before he could stop himself, his legs were moving swiftly after him, jaw clenched as well as fists. He didn't know what he would have done to Lovino if Feliciano hadn't grabbed him around his waist. The skinny arms came around him and held him like a vice—a child's grip, strong, and prompting pause for consideration.

"Please, Luddy," Feliciano begged. "He's just troubled."

 _He has a funny way of showing it,_ Ludwig thought, but he did not take another step further. Instead, he turned and faced his brother's grave. In his pocket, his fingers found the pocket watch Gilbert had kept and gripped it.

"I would say I loved him," Ludwig began, addressing the group but at the same time feeling in his own isolated bubble of grief. "But then, I expect you already know that." He chewed on his lip for a moment, thinking how best to describe his brother while equally knowing that defining him would be nigh on impossible. "It would not be proper to say I knew everything about him—he was an anomaly even to me. He had his positives and his negatives, and he tended to go to the extreme of either end more than anything. On top of being a pain in the arsch, he was my brother, and that meant more to me than any trouble he caused. He had always been there for me, to support me, granted in a unique way. When I signed him off the map, I thought he would be furious." He finally met eyes with Gilbert's pale, inert form and his voice caught. "But he wasn't. Sad, yes, but never angry. He knew as well as I that his time had ended. He said it was my time now, and that he hoped I would take what he'd taught me to do better than he ever could. And I promised him I would."

His fist clenched around the pocket watch, and his throat constricted. He studied Gilbert's dead face, his blue lips, the blood coating the side of his head, and he had to look away. "He said before this that he was expendable. He said that itf it came down to me or him, he would… he…" Ludwig cleared his throat shakily and swallowed. "H-he said he would do anything to make sure I stayed alive. But what he didn't understand was that he wasn't worthless. He never was worthless. I know I'm his younger brother and he felt responsible for my well-being, but he didn't deserve to die like this. Neither did Sadiq or Marge or Ruby… Belgium or the Netherlands… Austria or Hungary… Hong Kong or Taiwan or South Korea… Sweden, Finland, Monaco, Luxembourg, the Baltics, Greece, Ukraine, Belarus," He fought to keep his voice firm as he listed the names, but as he ticked them off he began to feel the weight of being one of the only survivors out of them all bearing down on him ever further. "Mexico, Australia, the Nordics, Switzerland, Liechtenstein, Wales, the Irelands, Scotland… Spain."

Ludwig's chest felt like it was being crushed inward, and his breath had left him. "I wish I could have him back so I can tell him how much I love him. I never did tell him enough. I hardly told him at all." His voice finally broke and so did his façade. He covered his face with a hand and couldn't contain the tears any longer. Through hundreds of years of living, nothing had ever hurt him this much. "Even when he was no longer a country he was th-there. I was the o-one who dissolved him and he does _this_. For me." Feliciano held him then, and Ludwig was once again surprised at how firm it felt. Everyone was so quiet it was as if no one was even there. They were all holding their breaths. No one ever thought it would come to this—Ludwig crying. It was as much an anomaly as it was heartbreaking.

Ludwig lost himself for a minute before he wiped his face and stood straight, eyes still shining with mourning. "Bury him. Please. I… I don't want to see him like this."

Ivan didn't say anything, just did his job. He was forced to look down at Gilbert's corpse as he shoveled the soil onto him. How long before he would be burying Alfred? How long before he would be the one lamenting and breaking?

Similar thoughts were tossed around in everyone else's heads. They were huddled together now against the cold and the biting wind. None of it seemed to matter outside of Ludwig's pain. Feliciano's fingers were locked around him, hugging him tightly from behind and possibly the only thing keeping Ludwig on his feet.

"Ich liebe dich," Ludwig said, and his heart clenched with the fact that he hadn't told Gilbert enough. "I already miss your goddamn annoying laugh." A sob ripped from his lungs that he couldn't smother, and by that time Ivan was patting down the dirt with the flat of his shovel.

No one said anything. What could they say? That Gilbert was a good man? That his death was cruel? That they promised to fix everything for him? It had been the same with every death and burial, the same promises. Of what worth were they?

Ludwig stayed beside the grave for a while, and Feliciano stayed with him while the others left to set up camp. The wind proved troublesome for them, and they were forced to clear a space between the trees of snow before pitching the tents. Their movements were slow and solemn, weighed down by guilt and cold. It took them ten minutes to get everything ready, and as ravenous as they were they were each forced to share a can to two people. Ivan had to share with Matthew (who was still rather stony toward him) while Alfred ate half of his can alone, staring at the ground, before getting up to deliver the rest to Lovino who had taken to his tent.

"Lovino, it's me," Alfred announced his entrance, slipping inside. Lovino was laying on his sleeping bag, braiding the twine they had gotten from the safehouse. Alfred was perplexed, but he didn't question. Lovino appeared focused on what he was doing and content to forget about this troubles through the movements of his fingers. Alfred set down the half-eaten can by Lovino's working hands. "Here's your share. You might wanna eat it, or Feliciano might have a heart attack." He stood there for a moment, but Lovino did not respond, didn't even give any sign that he knew Alfred was standing over him. Alfred sighed and opened the flap, stepping out into the bitter cold and pulling his hood up around his face.

A few stragglers were left in the camp by the time Alfred walked across it to the tent he shared with Ivan. There was no way in hell Alfred was abandoning ship just because Ivan pissed him off. He never backed down before and he sure as fuck wouldn't now. He would sleep in that same tent with Ivan and the Russian would know he could never hurt him. He could never…

Alfred stopped a foot away from the tent opening, and he knew Ivan must have seen his shadow. His throat was growing scratchy again, and the heat of frustration flooded his face. The closer he got to the tent, the more upset he became. He certainly knew the reason, but he refused to admit it.

He ducked into the tent and didn't spare one look at Ivan. He pulled the sleeping bag off his back pack and unrolled it. When he began to undress, he could feel Ivan's eyes on him. It made his heart pound, but not with anxiety. He was determined to remain stoic, however, and he discarded his clothing orderly and without a word. Ivan would see what could have been his if only he had changed.

And Ivan watched. His eyes took in every inch of Alfred, and his fingers itched to touch him, to grab him tightly and pull him back to his sleeping bag—their sleeping bag—to sleep beside him, where he belonged. But he knew he could not. So he only watched as Alfred slipped into his own sleeping bag and turned his back to him, hiking up the material over his ears.

Ivan climbed into his own, his eyes, though tired, kept open by the mere sight of Alfred's hair tumbling out of the sleeping bag across from him, the slight rise and fall of the sleeping bag with each precious breath he took. And Alfred in turn was kept awake by his thoughts of Gilbert, of Lovino when he saw him in his tent, braiding the twine together with dead eyes. He would be an empty shell as Lovino was if he attached himself to Ivan and the Russian were to die. He would have to move on if he ever hoped to live without constant memories of Ivan and what closeness they had shared. But there was simply too much to forget.

* * *

Too much to forget. That was what had kept everyone up that night. Alfred and Ivan with their silent longing; Lovino with his braiding; Feliciano with the mourning Ludwig; Yao with the stony Kiku; Matthew clutching Sadiq's mask, just the scent of him making him ache; Arthur with his bandaged hands wrapped around Francis, talking to him, soothing him as best he could, and Francis's breaths so shallow Arthur feared for him. All of them had given up in one way or another.

Given up the dream of a perfect new society, where everything would be as it once was. There was too much corruption and evil in the world for it to ever be returned to that image they held so dear. They were truly starting over in a place that was completely foreign to them. Were they key players in this deadly game or were they just pawns to be sacrificed? Should they even try to right so many wrongs? Where would they ever begin?

To say that they were eager to get continue their journey was a terrible lie. They all knew when the sun came up they should be going, but fatigue and grief rendered them motionless for a couple hours after. All the while, Arthur was holding Francis even though he knew that Ludwig was too distraught to lead the group—now was his time. He would get over his fear of being unable to control his own actions just as he got over every change he had ever encountered in his history. He would not let himself disappear. Not after so many had said that he would.

"Francis," Arthur's voice was coarse and not his own, rough from disuse. Nonetheless his arms tightened around the man he was curled up to, squeezing insistently. "Francis, come on. It's time to leave."

Francis did not move and it was only then that Arthur noticed how cold he felt. Without fully grasping what it all meant, his eyes filled and spilled over before he could stop it. "Francis?" He was shaking him harder now, not feeling the Frenchman's chest rise or fall with breath. "Francis, stop it. Wake up, dammit. It's time to leave. Francis!"

Francis moved and all the air left Arthur's lungs. "Mnn, do not shout, cher. It is early."

Arthur found himself shaking and his ribs hurt from where his heart was trying to escape through them. He held Francis tightly to him, struggling to calm himself. "You're… you're such a sod."

Francis's voice was a croak, his demeanor dull and distant. "Non, but I am cold."

Arthur immediately set about righting their sleeping bag, which had slipping down on Francis's side almost to the man's hip. "The damn zipper's faulty," Arthur snapped, as if the zipper actually cared. He pulled Francis to him and urged him to turn over so that his frigid front could press against Arthur's warm belly. Arthur hissed at the chill, but held him nonetheless.

"You scare me sometimes," Arthur told him as he buried his nose in Francis's unruly hair.

Francis didn't say anything. He huddled up against his lover, his numb skin prickling as it became more sensitive to touch with the warmth Arthur provided. He would not tell Arthur that he had been dreaming of curling up beside Gilbert in his grave, his breath gradually slowing until he left to join the friends that he so missed. He could never tell Arthur.

"I love you," Arthur said, and there was no shame in admitting it. To do so was not to be defeated; it was to conquer and to evolve. To change. "I know you are hurting, but we have to keep going. Looking back will only hinder us now."

Francis's fingers dug into Arthur's chest and he rested his forehead against it, swallowing. He was shivering, and Arthur waited for him to stop before looking down at him. "Come now, love, it's time to get up."

Francis ran through all of those times he had dreamed of Arthur saying those words to him, how they would be laying together in a warm bed and Arthur would have a smile on his face instead of worry heavy in his eyes. But they were here, stuffed into a ragged sleeping bag, the cold closing around them in a suffocating cloud, the world a wreck, and Toni and Gilbert snatched from him. Yet Arthur was here, holding him and confessing his love to him. It seemed just as surreal as everything else that had happened.

Francis pressed his lips against Arthur's skin before wriggling out the sleeping bag to sit up. Arthur did not waste time in fetching Francis's clothes for him and hurriedly tugging them on. He barely felt the cold on his own bare skin.

Arthur was in the midst of buttoning up Francis's coat before Francis grabbed his hands and stopped him. "I can do the rest, amour," he assured.

Arthur took this as a message to dress himself, and he did so, his body consumed with shivers for a few minutes afterward.

Arthur kissed Francis's chapped lips, alarmed when the man barely responded. Francis returned the favor chastely—far from the passionate, open-mouthed kiss they usually shared (and which most often to led to other activities). When Arthur pulled away, he took Francis's hand and squeezed it. He would not let the man distance himself from him.

He pulled Francis out of the tent and into the camp, his hand tight around Francis's. Being together was his rock. If he lost it, then he would lose himself. Francis knew everything about Arthur and vice versa. They had been living off of each other's actions and reactions for centuries without fully realizing. Arthur knew it was horribly cliché, but Francis made him whole; the one who knew when he was hurting, when he was lying, when he was conflicted, when he needed to be taken care of (as much as he disliked to admit). He hoped that Francis's feelings for him were similar, because if Francis walked away, Arthur would follow. He had never been so miserable and so in love in his life.

No one mentioned how quiet everything was now that Gilbert was gone. Ludwig packed his belongings up with a clenched jaw and eyes of steel, white-knuckled hands moving quickly, almost tearing. The night before had been the last time he would ever be so weak. He had finished his mourning and was not like to return to it. At least not until after he strangled each and every Organization member he encountered. Feliciano watched him, afraid to help him and feeling useless because of it. He didn't want to break the fragile young wall of security Ludwig had built up around himself. The Italian had curled up to him, held him, the night before. Feliciano had never held anyone. He had been woken out of a dead sleep by the bunching of Ludwig's muscles. They remained tense for the rest of the night and Feliciano stayed awake in case Ludwig decided to do something rash.

Feliciano had never cared for anyone before now. Mostly, he was the one who needed watching over. But this was different. He loved Ludwig, and that love gave him enough strength to support the both of them. Mentally, of course.

But Lovino needed him as well. He knew something was wrong with his brother. He had packed up his tent slowly and with disinterest hinging on resignation. Afterward he stood slumped, eyes heavy, head ducked, the weight of the world on his shoulders. He appeared as if he would topple over at a breath and wouldn't care to get back up again. His only response to questions asked of him were a slight shake or nod of his head.

Lovino let Feliciano hold his hand, and Feliciano thought that was a big step for him. But the loose way he held it, as if he was numb to his touch, caused Feliciano more worry than reassurance. The more Feliciano watched his brother suffer, the more he longed to shake him—wake him up, because this was not living.

Arthur cleared his throat, the sound unnaturally loud to their ears. "So," he began, fingers squeezing Francis's own from his place beside him. "Who's driving?"

* * *

Translations:

 _Je suis ici_ -I am here

 _Je suis désolé, mon ami cher_ -I am sorry, my dear friend

A Word From the Writer: Ugh SAD. Everything about this... well, things are about to heat up, so it's okay. You got some angsty FrUK and RusAme going on... no lemon, sorry. As a side note, I find I'm writing a lot of lemon during the non-lemony parts of this fic just to get it out of my system. I'm working on a one-shot, but I've been so consumed by this I haven't had the time to complete it, haha. Ah, my brain. Always filled with pr0n. Thus is the life of a fangirl.

Btw, if there are any discrepancies in the itinerary of the group, blame Google Maps.


	88. Paying the Toll

**Day after crappy day.  
**

Warning: Angst, violence, weapons, dangerous situation.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Paying the Toll**

They had procured enough gas from Chicago to get them to Pittsburgh. They were approaching Cleveland now, and as much as they disliked to think it, they would eventually have to stop and search for more fuel.

Francis was too grief-stricken to drive, so Arthur took the wheel instead. Matthew sat in the back seat of the truck, stroking Francis's hand, occasionally murmuring comforting words, trying anything to produce a reaction in the man. Francis was all but silent.

Alfred had crammed himself into the vehicle to avoid traveling with Ivan, who had taken one of the vans. It had kind of been a split-second decision. There he was on his way to the van and along came Ivan, giving him that surprised look as if Alfred would deign to squeeze himself into a small space with him ever again. Alfred had sharply turned on his heel and before he realized it, he was headed to the the crowded truck. He forced himself inside and stayed there, watching as Ivan coolly took to the van's driver's seat. Alfred would have liked to have more room for himself, but he didn't dare get out. It would have been embarrassing.

And so, there he was, cramped as ever, having to deal with a half-dead Francis and the weight of Gilbert's death hanging heavy in the air.

"Here we go," Arthur said wearily—the first three words spoken in the past hour.

Alfred huffed. "Tch, can't believe these were still kept in service."

"There was no one at the last one," Arthur told him blithely. "And the barriers were smashed through."

"Yeah," Alfred muttered, looking out the window with his arms crossed. "But I could have done something about it. No one should have to pay to escape violence."

"We all could have done something about everything," Arthur replied, his voice dark and monotone. His old voice was lost to him now.

Arthur drove the truck up to the toll booths, choosing one at random and pulling in. They had been on the Ohio Turnpike for most of the time since they'd left Chicago, but Arthur hadn't gotten a good look at the first booth. Francis, in his angst to escape the house, had blown through it. Now they were arriving at the end and the second and last booth. Alfred had voiced multiple times how much he hated the damned turnpikes and how he wished they would just disappear. Arthur thought it ironic that the toll booths should 'disappear' along with the rest of known society. Perhaps Alfred had wished too much?

Arthur was going seventy and was loath to slow even while going through the small passage between the booths, but something caught his eye in a place where nothing should rightfully be. The whole train stopped with him.

In the booth, beside which the truck was sitting idle, was a dead man. He was pale, half his face eaten off by what Arthur expected must have been flies and maggots when the weather was still warm. The eyes were melted from the previous sizzling heat, and even from the road Arthur could smell the overpowering stench of decay. Blood caked the man's clothing, and there were scratches and other such marks on the booth glass suggesting that many an animal had tried their luck at getting to his remains.

Arthur knew he should have been appalled at what he saw, but to Arthur it was just another meeting with a fate he knew they risked facing. The man inside that booth was as dead as Arthur felt. To say he was mildly tempted to climb into a booth and face death now rather than later was a gross understatement. At least then he would be able to control how he went, unlike Sadiq, drowned and swept away in an icy torrent or Gilbert with half his head blown to pieces.

"Cher?"

Arthur flinched and found that he had put the truck in park. When had that happened? He blinked and shook his head, peering into the rearview mirror to see that Francis had awakened. He was staring at him, brow furrowed. "Why have we stopped here?" There was obvious anxiety in his voice. He sensed Arthur's mood.

Arthur huffed and relaxed his tense muscles, gripping the wheel with less force than before. _What the hell am I thinking? I'm the former bloody British Empire. Fuck if I just give up._ "Nothing. I just… it's nothing. We're leaving." He shifted gears. _Fuck if I leave them._

Arthur was ready to peel out of there, to get away from such dark desires, foot poised and ready over the gas, when he heard a sharp honk. Everyone in the vehicle jumped and Arthur nearly gave himself whiplash from snapping his head around to see what was going on behind them. They were so shocked that they couldn't say anything before another honk was sounded, and the last van in the train punched the gas to another lane.

"What the hell is he doing?" Alfred stared at Ludwig, who slowed just enough to roll down his window and shout.

"What?" Arthur yelled, as Ivan began laying on his horn as well and swerved suddenly to the side.

"Drive!" Ludwig repeated, not having enough time to say anything else as he peeled off down another lane and through the booths.

"What's going on?" Matthew's heart was pounding now. If something could scare Ludwig that much then it must be bad.

"In the mirrors!" Francis shouted to Arthur. "Regardez!"

Arthur did look. And what he saw made his stomach drop down to his feet. "Shit—!" He stomped the gas and he was tailing Ludwig. Ivan was in a lane adjacent and not far behind.

Ludwig knew they were in trouble, not just because five other vehicles were pursuing them in an aggressive manner, but because they had yet to fill the tanks with fuel since leaving Chicago. They had fed the last of the saved gasoline to their vehicles before departing camp. As much as Ludwig wanted to go as fast as the van would let him, he also knew that if he did he would burn away what little fuel they had. And slow with promises of traveling a greater distance was much better than fast with promises of traveling a shorter distance, especially when being hunted.

His ankle was cramped over the gas in response to adrenaline. It took many precious seconds for Ludwig to pry his foot off the pedal in favor of a slower speed.

"He's fucking crazy!" Alfred exclaimed when he saw the van in front of them lose speed until Arthur was practically tailgating him. "What the fuck is wrong with him?"

"Nothing," Arthur snapped back. "Ludwig knows the limits of cars better than any of us. It would be wise to follow him." And he let up his foot.

Alfred nearly launched himself into the front seat. "What are you doing?!"

"Never you mind!" Arthur barked. "Now sit down and strap yourself in proper. And for Christ's sake, keep your bloody mouth _shut_!" Alfred appeared as if he would protest further, but he thought better and sat back, retrieving a seat belt and yanking it over himself. Good. Arthur couldn't afford to be distracted in any way. Not when he had three lives other than his own he was now solely responsible for.

"How many?" Ivan asked.

Yao swiveled around in his seat to peer out of the back window. "Four… no, five." He turned back around, eyes wide. "They're going faster."

Ivan cursed under his breath. "Can you see the people inside?"

"Two, but I don't know…" Yao began to say before he ducked down, grabbing Kiku along with him. "They have guns!"

"Big fucking surprise," Ivan growled. Not a second later followed the sound of gunfire. Ivan could tell when the pursuers were getting really close when the harsh _tink_ of bullets embedding in the malleable fiberglass of the van reached his ears. He jerked the wheel, zig-zagging down the road to avoid the barrage.

Ludwig saw a flicker in the rear view mirror, the sharp glint of metal against the setting sun, and he shouted, "Get down!"

Instincts took over, and Lovino grabbed Feliciano, breaking out of his stupor and not bothering being concerned with the man's comfort, pushing him down and falling on top of him. Feliciano let out a gasp, his chest aching with Lovino's weight, but he was so paralyzed with fear he remained stock still, the seats reverberating with the crescendo of gunfire. The sounds went through him, cut him as shockingly as bullets.

"Holy fuck," Alfred exclaimed, peering through the back window. "They're shooting at us!"

"What, Alfred?" Arthur asked through gritted teeth, knuckles white on the wheel. "I thought you were used to these tacky Hollywood scenarios?"

"Yeah, but those guys had stunt doubles," Alfred flashed back, forced to grab onto the handle on the roof of the truck as the vehicle listed sideways. He grunted as Matthew and Francis slid into him and continued rather breathlessly, "I mean, I have Mattie, but I doubt he'd last very long."

Matthew glared daggers at him. "Fuck you, Al!"

The truck jerked again, a bullet tinking off the door closest to Francis. "Their aim is getting better!"

"Shut it, all of you!" Arthur yelled at the top of his lungs, and everyone went quiet. He settled back into his seat. "Now get the fuck down and hang on."

Ivan could now hear the rev of the black van coming up on his left side. He wished he could go faster, but he had to remain slow for the sake of retaining fuel. Still, his foot twitched over the gas, longing to press it to the floor. He willed himself to be level-headed, and his stiffness wore off in time to see that the van had pulled up right next to him on the driver's side. He glanced over for just a moment, his main focus being the road. He found himself staring down the barrel of a loaded sawed-off shotgun.

"Ебать!" Ivan swore and swerved, tossing Yao against the opposite door, bruising his back. Kiku came flying with him, though he managed to stop himself short and roll onto the floor. Yao recovered, his breaths ragged and wheezy, gathering himself into a crouch. "Why the fuck they only have shotgun? Not very effective in car chase."

"Nyet," Ivan told him, the van pursuing them across the lanes. There was a shot that was significantly louder than the others, and the whole vehicle lurched, the sound of screeching fiberglass and crunching metal making them all cringe. "They have—"

"Slugs!" Alfred balked, watching the van Ivan was in surge across an entire lane from the blast. "Where the hell are they getting these guys, the fucking _boonies_?"

"I said get down, git!" Arthur snapped, and Alfred ducked just in time to have glass shatter over his head.

Arthur jumped in his seat, foot on the gas nearly going level to the floor. He looked over and saw a sizable hole in the passenger's headrest, the cotton and upholstery vomited onto the seat below. The glove box was still smoking with the slug that had lodged in it. "Holy hell…"

Matthew found himself clinging to Alfred as they crouched low in the seat. Alfred's nails had dug into the upholstery so hard it had split, the shards of glass still settled on his head. He was completely still and staring. "Al? Are you okay?"

Alfred swallowed before looking at him and saying rather tremulously, "Y-yeah, I'm fine. Uh…" His mind was struggling to keep up with what was happening. The van that was the source of the slugs was speeding up next to them, and the gears in his head were working themselves haggard to try and confront the situation as best he could.

A dead weight was thrown against him then that sent him tumbling between the seats. Matthew was next to follow, landing haphazardly on Alfred's stomach, his knee making brute contact with Alfred's shin. "Sorry," Matthew said and tried to right himself. But a firm hand on his back forced him back down.

"Stay down," Francis ordered from his place lying flat, stretched out across the back seats. "Don't move."

"They're going to shoot Arthur," Ludwig observed, in a sort of trance, still emerging from his grief. This was too much. He couldn't handle it.

Lovino held Feliciano to him and shouted, "Then do something about it, bastard!"

And Ludwig _did_ do something. Lovino's voice sliced through his paralysis, and he was shooting across the lanes, slowing down enough to get to the rear of the car tailing Arthur's. Ludwig was aware he was being followed by at least two vans. Where the other was, he did not know nor did he care. The man with the shotgun was reloading with a slug, leaning out of the window and poised to shoot directly into the driver's side of the truck the van was keeping speed with.

"All right, you Scheißkerl," Ludwig growled, punching the gas and bringing the front bumper of the van to touch the back of the pitch black van. Ludwig vaguely heard Lovino shout in protest and that made him hesitate. But when he saw that the license plate of the van before him read 'NEWORDR', he forgot everything and gunned it. Lovino's frantic voice and Feliciano's cries were muffled to Ludwig's ears; his blood was pulsing through him, quickened with rage.

"What the _hell_ are you doing, Ludwig?" Arthur muttered darkly to himself as his attention switched from the road to his mirrors to the man loading his shotgun in the van beside him.

"Arthur," Francis's voice was anxious as he observed the man adjusting his aim. "He's going to—!"

"No, he's not!" Arthur assured when he realized what Ludwig was doing. As soon as he saw Ludwig's front bumper collide with the Organization van's rear, the Briton jerked the wheel away. Francis was so startled by the motion that he tumbled onto Matthew. Alfred, who was at the base of the pile, grunted, all the breath leaving him.

"Get off me!" he shouted in frustration. Here he was in the middle of the action, and he wasn't able to do anything but sprawl on his back. "Let me up!"

"Stay down," Arthur ordered, straightening out the vehicle. "or I'll kick your arse."

"Like that's a threa— _holy shit, what was that_?"

Arthur couldn't keep a relieved smile from his face as he observed the black van swerve, jostled by the push from Ludwig's vehicle. It was soon fishtailing, and the man with the shotgun became so unbalanced that he gave up and retreated back into the passenger's side. As much as the driver tried, however, he could not manage to right the car. Instead he over corrected rather harshly and the tires squealed as it turned to its side and kept turning as Ludwig raced past it. It was almost turned completely about when the black van bringing up the rear approached at full speed, unable to stop. What Alfred heard was their violent collision, the fishtailing van rolling a few times, metal crunching, and the other mangled all the way up to the front cabin.

"Two down," Ivan observed. _But still one for each of us._ He could see them now, pulling back to gather information before setting off to hunt down their respective victims. _Splitting up, hm?_

_Big mistake._

Ivan was not ignorant to tactics. He knew what it took to win. He had centuries of experimentation behind him. Splitting up was one of the last things he would consider if on the offense. Splitting meant less power, and since his group had escaped Organization clutches more than once, it could be gleaned that they were definitely _not_ incapable of defense. Certainly it would be more logical to divide and conquer?

 _There's something wrong here._ Yao knew Ivan was thinking the same thing by his features. The Organization didn't take over the world for lack of wits. "Careful," he warned.

"Don't worry about me and keep your head low." Ivan watched the black van race up behind him and decided that he'd had about enough of these Organization members playing God and trying to fuck them over. Ivan had already been controlled once, and he had made a promise to himself that he would never let that happen again. _No one_ tried to kick him down and got away with it.

With that in mind, he steadied the wheel with his knee and searched his coat for his rifle. He found it and pulled it onto his lap. When Yao heard the click of a magazine being locked, his shocked eyes met Ivan's in the rearview mirror. He swallowed, but held Kiku closer and said, "Do what you have to."

Ivan nodded. His face was blank as he replied, "If something happens, get us the hell out of here."

Yao knew what it meant. They both did, as dark as it was. He was scared, but the feel of Kiku's form in his arms reminded him that he couldn't afford to be. He nodded back and Ivan cocked his weapon, a white-knuckled hand returning to the wheel.

* * *

_Fuck,_ Lovino thought. _Fuck, fuck, fucking_ fuck _!_

"Lovi," Feliciano whined. "You're hurting my arm!"

Lovino's attention snapped from the black van coming up behind them at full speed to his brother who was sniffling beside him. He was digging bruising fingers into his arm, but he didn't let up. Instead he shoved Feliciano down between the seats, his brother crying and whimpering all the while. "Shut up and get down, dammit!"

"They're coming," Ludwig observed, jaw set.

"Then fucking do something about it!" Lovino shouted. "Do you want Feli to be hurt? Fucking do _some_ thing!"

Ludwig didn't know where it came from, but he suddenly had an idea. It came on so fast that his head pulsed with discomfort and his hands began to shake. _We need to kill the driver._ Ludwig had an idea how, but it was crazy. Straight up _insane_.

He was expressionless, pushing all worry from his mind for the sake of Feliciano's safety. The fact that Feliciano was crammed between the seats, curled up and sobbing, made Ludwig want to kill every single one of them himself. He knew there were easier ways, safer ways. But if it meant attention being drawn away from the inside of the vehicle, then Ludwig would do it.

"Take the wheel," he said.

Lovino frowned. "What?"

"I said take the wheel for me. I'm going out."

"Out?" Lovino muttered in confusion. Then realization hit him and his jaw dropped. _"Out?"_ he yelled. "You're fucking crazy!"

"I hope," Ludwig said. "Or this won't work. Now climb up here and hold it."

Lovino lunged forward as one of Ludwig's hands left the wheel to grip the window frame. When his foot lifted off the gas, Lovino's darted down to take its place, awkwardly stretched halfway in the seat. "You're fucking determined to get shot, aren't you?"

"Ludwig?" Feliciano sat up and his eyes widened with the sight of the German hoisting himself out of the window.

Ludwig threw him a glance and told him firmly, "Stay down, Feli."

"Don't go!" Feliciano screamed, wriggling out of the space he was wedged in to bend over the back of the driver's seat. He reached out and grabbed onto one of Ludwig's belt loops. "Please, what if you're hurt? What if you _fall_?" Tears streamed down his face. Lovino watched him beg, but he didn't try to stop him. Ludwig's safety was Feliciano's business more than his, so he let Ludwig decide for himself if Feliciano was persuasive enough to stop him.

"I'm sorry, Feli," Ludwig said after a time, wrenching Feliciano's hand from his pants. "Now you stay down." And he had his feet balanced on the window before scrabbling for purchase on top of the van and disappearing entirely onto the roof.

"Ludwig!" Feliciano appeared ready to climb out the window himself, but Lovino yanked him down by the collar of his shirt, making him choke.

"You dumbass!" he shouted. "Don't you dare risk your ass for a fucking cocky-ass potato head!"

Feliciano gave him a look that Lovino never knew he possessed. It was fiery and it seemed to pierce through him. He jerked out of Lovino's grasp and said in a tone so unlike his usual cheery one, "I love him, Lovino. Didn't you love someone once?"

Lovino was left speechless, the tightness in his chest became so overwhelming Lovino thought he would cry. It was truth, but it only served to bring up memories of what Feliciano had that he didn't. Always Feliciano. The better brother. He deserved it, he deserved—

Feliciano suddenly rapped him hard on the shoulder. "Lovi, don't _slow down_!"

Lovino snapped out of it and instinct took over where his conscious mind could not. He steadied the vehicle and returned to the speed Ludwig had previously set, listening to Ludwig's feet as they clopped across the top of the van.

Feliciano, meanwhile, was torn. He wanted Ludwig to be safe, but he knew that risking his own life in order to convince him to come down would only escalate the situation, possibly to a deadly point. So he remained frozen in his seat, upright, too afraid to duck down and miss hearing Ludwig's every precarious footstep above his head.

Alfred threw Matthew off of him when he saw something move on a van out of the corner of his eye. He sat up and stared, gaping. "What the _fucking fuck_ is he _doing_?"

Everyone's eyes went to Ludwig, who was currently balancing on the top of the van. He was on his hands and knees, sliding every now and then, but overall managing to stabalize himself rather decently.

Matthew shook his head in disbelief. "He's suicidal!"

Francis leaned forward to jostle Arthur's shoulder. "Arthur, we need to—"

"No," Arthur snapped, surprising them all. He kept his eyes forward even as he saw a black Organization pull up alongside Ludwig's. "Let him do what he needs to." _Let's hope his sense is still intact…_

Besides, they had more things to worry about than Ludwig falling. Arthur was ashamed to admit it, but he would rather keep everyone in his vehicle safe than risk all their lives trying to save Ludwig. He cared about everyone, but no one could expect him to choose between them. He loved Francis, Alfred, and Matthew enough to be willing to take the blame for not doing anything to prevent Ludwig's death.

His eyes traveled to his mirrors and saw with a spark of rage a black van approaching from behind at breakneck speed. His knuckles went white around the steering wheel. _I'll do anything,_ Arthur thought with apprehension. Then he gathered a plan and swallowed, saying, "Get down, all of you. _Now_."

Arthur's voice was stiff enough for Francis to realize that he was scared. It was one of the many masks the Briton wore in rough situations. Francis forced Matthew down between the seats again (who protested loudly but went without much of a stuggle nonetheless), but Alfred stubbornly remained sitting upright.

Arthur whipped his head around and shouted, "If you don't get down—"

"No," Alfred told him. "I'm not getting down. I'm tired of hiding from these fuckers." And he tucked his feet beneath him, turning down the window.

Matthew managed to turn himself over and unwedge an arm. Trembling fingers hooked into Alfred's jacket, pulling. "What the hell are you doing, Al?"

Alfred shook him off and gripped the outside of the window, hoisting himself up and out. "The guns are in the back. We gotta get 'em."

They all tumbled to one side as Arthur jerked the wheel. Alfred gave a yelp, scrabbling, just barely managing to hang on. "Don't you dare!" Arthur yelled. "You will not risk your neck again. Alfred, you deaf sod, get back in here _now_!" But Alfred was already out of the window, Francis pulling himself over to it and reaching out.

"Grab my hand!" he shouted. "You can't do this. It's suicide!"

But Alfred only continued making his way down the side of the truck, lifting his leg into the open bed, his other balanced precariously on the sidestep. "No, I'm not gonna take anymore of their shit. I don't give a fuck if it's suicide or not. And Ludwig doesn't either."

Francis watched in disbelief as Alfred slipped into the back of the truck and he gave up, reentering the vehicle. By then Matthew was up on the seats, pulling open a small back window. "Alfred! Keep down!"

"Like hell I will!" Alfred shouted back, rummaging around in the bed for their bags and going through them for their weapons and ammo. It was difficult to search, as Arthur was driving rather erratically and the cold wind was stinging his face and eyes as it whipped past. "They'll see my face and know who killed them! And tell Artie to drive smoother, I don't wanna fall off before I make them eat lead."

"Ah shit," Matthew groaned, hopeless. "He's into it."

"Alfred said to slow down, cher," Francis told Arthur.

"How can I bloody slow down?" Arthur ground out. "He's in a moving no man's land, the great twit!" But Arthur eased up on the wheel and the gas, though his anxiety was through the roof. Alfred was in the back of the truck and the black van was gunning it toward them. And the git still hadn't managed to find any weapons.

Then Matthew's mouth dropped open. "Oh my God."

"C'est impossible…"

"What is it now?" Arthur asked, eyes darting to his mirrors. He saw Alfred's bobbing head as he hunched over the bags, rifling through them with haste. And then he lifted his gaze and he nearly put the gas to the floor.

A man was standing through the sunroof in the black van. He was loading a belt of ammo into a mounted M2 machine gun.

* * *

Translations:

 _Regardez_ -Look

 _Ебать_ -Fuck

 _Scheißkerl-_ motherfucker

A Word From the Writer: Okay, so, I know this is a bit confusing since I'm not using line breaks to separate the vehicles, but England is driving the truck with America, France, and Canada in the back, Germany is driving one of the vans with Italy and Romano, and Russia is driving the other van with China and Japan inside. And... how the fuck was an M2 mounted onto a van? I haven't the foggiest, but the Organization has got it going _on_. And I like America's logic here. First he's like, "Holy shit, Ludwig's on the roof of his van, WTF, the crazy bastard," and then he's like, "See ya, guys, Imma climb out of a moving truck and get the guns in the back." Yeah, sounds like a GREAT idea right there.

So another cliffhanger. Had a hard time breaking this up cause of all the dialogue connecting one car to another so... long-ass chapter. You're welcome. Also, Happy New Year! Can't believe it's been a year since I've posted... aha, yeah, bad pun, sorry. I'll just *ahem* leave now, ta!


	89. All Upside Down

**Prepare to meet epic stuntman Germany.  
**

Warning: Angst, dangerous situation, fight scene, weapons, gore.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**All Upside Down**

Ivan balanced his AK-47 in his lap as the van came hurtling up beside him, the shooter aiming out the window with an MP5, cocked and loaded. Ivan immediately drew up his rifle, placing the butt firmly against his shoulder, one hand on the wheel and the other gripping the trigger guard. He lined up with a quickness that only came with experience, honing in on the man's head and firing.

The man gave a harsh cry and gurgled before dropping out of the van and rolling down the road. Ivan's front wheel went over some part of him with a clear _crunch_ , but he barely heard it. He was currently gritting his teeth and gripping the shoulder that had borne the recoil of the weapon. The joint moved freely over the socket and Ivan instantly knew it was dislocated.

At first he hadn't understood what was wrong. He had fired in this manner many times before and hadn't received such pain. But then his mind cleared up to remember that he was merely human now and that his usual tactics would only prove to make him weaker.

Yao heard the strained grunt and turned to see the rifle clatter onto Ivan's lap. "You're shot!" he exclaimed.

"Nyet," Ivan said through clenched teeth. "My shoulder is dislocated… climb up here."

Yao knew Ivan was asking for help, but then again the Russian never directly asked for aid in any situation. Yao did as he asked, but not before imploring Kiku wedge himself between the seats and cover his head. He took up Ivan's arm. "Let me see."

Just then a hail of bullets pierced the side of the vehicle, a few flying past their heads to imbed themselves in the seats and dashboard. Another man had taken the dead one's place, reloading his own MP5 and adjusting his aim so as to assure deadly precision.

Ivan's hand instantly shot down to retrieve his own gun, but gave a cry when pain coursed up his arm. Seeing no other way, Yao practically threw himself into Ivan's lap and grabbed up his rifle, firing round after round. Ivan had to remember to guide the wheel and moved the van in a zigzag motion to avoid one of the rival bullets making it into the cab. All the while Yao had his front half spilled across Ivan, elbows imbedded uncomfortably in the Russian's thighs, whole body jerking every time his finger snapped back on the trigger.

Ivan barely kept his grip on the wheel. "Yao, reach into my coat."

Yao appeared a little startled at the command. He pulled his gaze away from the gunman in the other van as they weaved apart to peer up at Ivan. "What?"

"My coat," Ivan urged, shifting so that Yao could reach in. "I have a grenade. Take it out."

Yao's eyes bulged. "You have grenade? You kill us!"

Ivan huffed in annoyance. "Just get the damn thing out."

And so it was that Yao fished up in Ivan's coat rather awkwardly while the gunman reloaded. Unfortunately, the man finished before Yao could locate the weapon and opened fire as soon as he was close enough. Grunting as a bullet barley missed his nose, Ivan jerked the van out of range. "Что ты делаешь? Get the grenade!"

"I'm _trying_ , gāisǐ de!" Yao's hands began to search more furiously, hoping to God he didn't do anything to set something off. And then a smaller pair of hands found his own.

Kiku was staring down at him. "Allow me, Yao-chan."

Shunted out of his stupor, Kiku was running completely on autopilot. No movement was made that wasn't deliberate or useful, and before long Kiku had located said item.

Ivan would have liked to say something along the lines of him being felt up, but the van was back again and the gunman was taking aim. Kiku retreated to the back seat, fingers curled tightly around the grenade. "Tell me what you want me to do, Ivan-san."

The Russian suddenly punched the gas. The van lurched forward so hard that they were all shoved back into their seats. Kiku fumbled, nearly dropping the grenade.

"You'll have to, unh." Pain spiked up his shoulder and he gritted his teeth. "Have to… throw it into the van, da?"

They all jumped as they were hailed with bullets. Yao responded in kind. "Ivan, you need to get down. You be killed!"

Ivan's heart was pounding, blood rushing in his ears—sensations he had never experienced before now. But he would never admit that it was frightening. "I will be fine." He moved the wheel suddenly again and the two vehicles parted. They only had so much time.

"Kiku," Ivan began firmly, looking into the man's eyes through the rear view mirror. "I need you to pull the pin when I tell you."

Kiku nodded. "I know when to pull the pin, Ivan-san."

"Wait," Yao said just as they were coming within range again. "When you going to pull it? Ivan?"

But Ivan was silent as the two vehicles came together. He gripped the wheel hard and said, "Roll down your window."

Kiku was not fazed by the command. He did so immediately, banishing all emotion just like he always did in dangerous situations. He knew he could do it.

But Yao wasn't quite so sure. "He will be shot!" He shouted angrily, the gunman dealing them another harsh volley that Yao forgot to return. When one bullet sheared through the sleeve on his coat and he could feel the heat of its travel just above his skin, Ivan decided enough was enough.

He floored it again, this time shooting forward until Kiku's window was directly positioned before the passenger's side of the Organization van. Yao sat up immediately.

"Kiku—!" He tried to lunge to the back seat, but Ivan caught him in an iron grip.

"Nyet, stay here."

"But Kiku…" Yao stiffened when he heard the metallic _tink_ of a pin being pulled and discarded. Kiku was crouched in the seat, a live grenade balanced in his hand. Yao's heart was throwing itself against his ribs. "Kiku!"

But the man ignored him, as he usually tended to do. Yao felt completely helpless, counting down the precious seconds to when the weapon would detonate. He knew the exact time, was old and experienced enough to count down to the very second when it would explode.

Yao swallowed. _10… 9… 8…_

Ivan could finally keep pace with the van, and Kiku's window lined up with the gunman's.

Yao felt numb. _7… 6… 5…_

There was a little hastle regarding speed, and the windows once again lined up. When the gunman saw Kiku, he fired, and Kiku promptly ducked.

Yao felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest. _4… 3…_

"Now," Ivan said.

"Hai."

And then Kiku threw it. They all watched intently as the weapon sailed in an arc over to the van. The gunman saw it, and when he recognized it he immediately ducked down. As if that did any good. The grenade flew right through the window.

Ivan just remembered to move away, pulling the wheel harshly to the side. They all once again were launched toward the opposite side of the cab, and it was just as well. Not a moment later, the cabin erupted into smoke and flame with a deafening and body-quaking roar, the front of the vehicle lifting up for a moment during the blast. They could feel the power through their own vehicle and it was shunted sideways for a moment before Ivan could gain control. When they looked back again, the black van had its door hanging off, charred and mangled, and the broken body of the gunman rolled out and onto the road, his corpse catching the rear tire. It was obvious everyone had been either killed or severely wounded as the van swerved uncontrollably without guidance. It rapidly approached them, the dead driver's foot still pressed hard to the gas, the door screaming and sparking against the road as it was dragged along, and Ivan nearly lost control of his own vehicle trying to avoid it.

The Organization van clipped them on the back bumper, and the prominent jostle that offered sent Ivan's heart into his throat. But the van dealt them only that and then sailed across the lanes. The door finally gave out, the hinges snapping, sending the whole thing plummeting to the asphalt. In his mirrors, Ivan saw the front tire catch on it and coupled with the great speed with which it was traveling and its dangerous fishtailing, it was easily knocked over. There were screeches and crunches of metal as the van flipped over and over across the road, gaining dangerous speed and power, stopped only by the guard rail. When it arrived at the rail, it was in such a damaged state that it practically curled around it from the side, its wheels smoking and spinning in the air.

There was a moment where everyone relaxed and took time to breathe and then Ivan peered out of the passenger's window.

"Мой Бог…"

Ludwig was standing on the roof of his van, but that hardly concerned Ivan. At least not as much as Alfred in the bed of the truck. He watched and felt his gut lurch when he heard gunfire erupt from the van tailing the truck, eyes widening at the mounted M2. Alfred stiffened before dropping down in the back, his head not reappearing.

Ivan felt like part of him had died. _You fool._

The truck took a sudden turn and hurtled toward the guard rail and the sloping hill that lay on the other side.

* * *

Ludwig's feet slipped back and forth on the smooth roof of the van, and twice he had nearly been thrown off. Lovino was keeping the vehicle as steady as he could, but the Organization van that had chosen them to harass was constantly knocking into the back, jostling the whole thing and making Ludwig's heart stop.

He reflected now that perhaps this had not been his brightest idea. But what could he do? The van was now so close that he would be shot if he so much as tried to clamber back into one of the windows. Then again, he could get shot if that van happened to pull up beside them.

But _what could he do_?

"Verdammt!" The van lurched again and sent Ludwig sliding across the roof. His fingers scrabbled desperately at the rounded surface, just barely managing to hook his them into the frame of one of the back windows.

The next he looked up, he saw the menacing black van beside them. He could hear Lovino swearing and Feliciano crying. Then Ludwig decided to do one of the craziest things he'd ever done in his life. He gathered his legs under him and gripped hard to where the window met the roof.

"Stay down, Feli!" was his final shout before he launched himself across to the other van.

He was so worried he would fall short that he nearly overshot himself. Everything in him burst into panic when he felt one of his legs go off the edge. But, somehow, he succeeded in staying on, lowering himself and elbowing his way to the center.

The van shifted again, and Ludwig found himself sliding toward the back. He cursed and got his feet under him, running in place for a few seconds before gaining ground and striking out for the center again.

Fingers gripping the edge of the roof from a front window was what Ludwig had been expecting but unprepared for.

It took a full minute for the man to fully maneuver himself onto the roof, forced to drag himself like a seal across the top until he could pull his legs up. Ludwig suddenly realized how helpless he was in such a position. It was all he could do to hang on—how in the world would he be able to fight this man?

Luckily for him, the man did not bring a weapon. Apparently he had been perceptive enough to know that he would need every last one of his fingers to keep a grip on the vehicle. The wind pulled at both their faces, stung their eyes, whipped their hair back, made their faces numb and their ears sore with cold, and at least those were a few things they shared.

It was immediate, however, that that was all they had in common. The man lashed out at him, defending the ideals he had been fed by his master, growling and gritting his teeth like a trained dog. His first action was to grab Ludwig, but the German knew what was coming and scurried out of the way.

It would have certainly been humorous if they weren't trying to kill each other and emergency teams were on hand. With an aerial view, it would appear as if they were a couple of crabs shuffling flat-bellied on the top of a van, limbs splayed and bodies sliding at the slightest jostle. Were that it was so simple. In all reality Ludwig was scared out of his wits, but the man swiping at him appeared as though being on the roof of a rapidly moving vehicle fighting someone who might just throw him off was something he had experienced countless times before.

Another swipe, and the man had Ludwig's wrist, yanking him forward. Ludwig had no other choice but to go; he couldn't exactly grab onto anything to keep himself from being pulled. As he got closer, the man's triumphant leer widened until it seemed to engulf his whole face. And yet his eyes were as dead as Ludwig had ever seen any corpse's.

Twisting out of the man's grip was not an option. Doing so would mean being sent helplessly across the roof again, and he couldn't let that happen when he was so close. Instead, when the man tried to bash Ludwig in the head with a poised fist, Ludwig whipped his trapped arm toward himself.

Not expecting Ludwig to respond in such a way, the man lost his concentration for a second. He chose to grip the vehicle instead of hit Ludwig, which was a mistake they both knew was fatal. The man's grip loosened, and Ludwig wrenched his hand free. Their eyes met, and for a moment the man's eyes flashed with something close to fright. Then Ludwig pushed the man's arm into his chest, sending the Organization member over the side. Ludwig watched, taking in the young, hairless face, the bright eyes, the lean muscle of the man's arms as they reached out in desperation and shock. He saw the humanity that had disappeared with the rest of the world.

And it was gone just as quickly, sucked under by the tires, crushed, bloodied, left an indecipherable red mass beneath the Organization's destructive machine. By the time the corpse was ground out by the back tires and released, there was no sign of the youth's round face nor the confident expression of someone who thought they knew how to cheat death. They had found so many ways to cheat death over the years—science, medicine, modernization, globalization—but they had never thought about how they would keep the world safe from themselves.

By the time Ludwig found his balance again, more fingers appeared on the roof, closely followed by arms and a head. Ludwig's heart sped up when he saw the massive shoulders strain as the man lifted himself onto the top of the van. He was a beast of man, scruffy and bulky, nothing compared to the youth that had preceded him. He had no trouble pulling up to meet Ludwig.

This time the man lunged at Ludwig. The German had nowhere to go but off.

He let himself be grabbed, but he wasn't expecting to be yanked halfway across the van. He grunted, his shoulder wrenching in its socket, and soon he was peering up into the dead eyes of the large Organization member.

"Scum," the man spat before digging his fingers into Ludwig's arm and swinging him over the side.

Ludwig yelled and held tight to the man's arm, dangling feet scrabbling for purchase on the dips of the windows. The man growled and shook him, but Ludwig's grip was iron. The wind was pushing him back, and his sweaty palms were slipping. The man poised his leg for a kick to Ludwig's jaw when the German felt a window roll down.

The man's foot caught some of his hair as he ducked down to maneuver his way into the back seat. When he let go of the man's arm, the man grabbed for him, almost catching him again before Ludwig shimmied his way into the van, heart pounding and legs quivering from the experience.

But Ludwig soon found that he was trapped. The driver all but ignored him, but a wiry man in the back quickly had his legs pinned. Ludwig was pulled completely onto the back seat, the man straddling him and catching his arms. Ludwig writhed and grunted, bringing up his knees to pound the man in his lower back. The man fell forward and responded by biting Ludwig's ear.

"Ah!" Ludwig shouted. "Scheißkerl!" The man was light enough to be rolled over, and before long Ludwig had him wedged between the seats, knee in his back. He then began looking around for something to finish him off with that wouldn't require exerting too much energy when his face came into contact with a fist.

He shouted as his nose burst, blood spilling down his front. He was propelled to the opposite end of the cabin, pain spiking up his knee as it was caught between the wiry man and seats, nearly going backward for a second. When he finally got hold of himself he was met with the sight of the burly man he'd met on the roof lunging toward him again.

Ludwig couldn't even escape by falling off this time. He was cornered in the cabin with a man twice his size, his nose surely broken and streaming with blood, and his leg still caught. He was in trouble.

The man charged him like a bull. Ludwig couldn't exactly get out of the way, but he did manage to wrench his leg free and pulled them both up to his chest, striking out with his feet as the man approached him. He got the guy in chest, but that barely seemed to faze him. With gorilla-like arms, he grabbed for Ludwig's neck. The German saw it coming and slammed his arm down, making the man's elbows bend and allowing Ludwig to knee the man in the chest.

The man grunted, breathless for a second and only that, and Ludwig took quick advantage, sending his knuckles hurtling toward the side of the brute's head.

But his wrist was caught. Everything went so fast, Ludwig couldn't think. He could barely take in the fact that his arm was yanked until he was lingering over the man, face-to-face. He was still trying to find his bearings when the man gathered his legs under him enough to flip Ludwig over him.

Ludwig hit the opposite window hard, upside down and winded. His neck was white hot with the angle it was twisted in, and he was dizzy—though from the blood loss or hitting his head on the door he didn't know. He looked up at the man who was crawling toward him in no rush. Ludwig had all but two choices. One, he could flip himself over so that his back was to the man and risk being grabbed before he could right himself. Two, he could push himself onto the seat enough to flip himself over then raise himself, which would take twice as long but at least he would be able to keep his eyes on his attacker.

He chose neither.

The man pounced on him and Ludwig had just enough thought to wedge his hand between himself and the door, grabbing the handle. When the man was on him, he pulled.

The door flew open, the wind beating it back. Ludwig fumbled, halfway on the seat while his legs slipped on the open door. The man had rushed past him, tumbling out of the door, only to grab onto one of Ludwig's legs.

Ludwig shouted, nails digging into the upholstery as he was pulled out. Blindly, his hand searched for the button to the window which had been cleverly turned up after the larger man had entered to keep him from escaping. He finally located it and rolled it down just enough to hook a leg through it. He then concentrated on freeing his other from the person still holding it.

He looked down and immediately regretted the decision. The man holding him resembled ground meat from the waist down. Bone was scraping against the road, the skeleton of his lower half slowly revealed as flesh and muscle were sheared away by the asphalt, leaving a chunky red trail behind him.

Ludwig would have thrown up, but he had work to do. He averted his eyes and focused on pulling himself back into the cab, arm muscles straining against the strength of the halfman gripping his ankle. At last, when Ludwig's torso was safely on the seat, the man's grasp seemed to loosen, and with a good shake his leg was released. Frantically, Ludwig clawed his way back in, catching his breath. When the rear tire lifted and fell again, Ludwig at least had the comfort of knowing that the beastly man was gone for good.

But he barely had time to recover before the wiry man, who had been hiding between the seats throughout, dealt a hefty punch to Ludwig's gut. The German swore when he had the breath to and brought his foot down on the man's back as he tried to get up. The man gasped, and with great relief Ludwig realized that he'd broken the boy's back. He wouldn't be getting up.

He heard the driver curse and saw the man's hand go to his side. Ludwig jumped forward to stop him, knowing what he was going for, when metal crunched from behind and the whole vehicle lurched forward and sent him flying to the front. The driver, distracted by his mirrors, was an easy target for Ludwig's fist.

A tooth flew and blood with it. The driver then turned his attention to Ludwig, elbowing him in the jaw. Ludwig moved back enough to avoid his jaw being broken, but the hit did jar him for a moment.

There was incessant honking from behind, and only then did Ludwig look into the rear view mirror and notice that one of their own vans was tailing them.

_Ivan._

Another honk, and Ludwig knew what the Russian was intent upon doing. By the time Ludwig returned his attention to the driver, the man had salvaged his gun, but had not aimed just yet. Ludwig took the time to lean back and kick the man in the jaw.

An audible _clack_ told Ludwig that it was broken. The man was distracted enough by the pain to allow Ludwig to crawl over the passenger seat and toward the open window, wind buffeting him as he stuck his head out, then his shoulders.

"Hey!" He waved frantically at Lovino, who saw him and moved the van closer. "Get in, bastard, I haven't got all day!"

Ludwig ignored him in favor of hooking his fingers into the Lovino's driver's side window and pulling with all his might, praying that Ivan didn't decide to ram the van again. He managed to wriggle his waist through, and his arms and head were securely in the other van. Feliciano had appeared to help him in, grabbing his arms and pulling.

Ludwig only had his legs to go when there was a shot from behind him.

"No!" Feliciano cried and nearly pulled Ludwig's arms off trying to get him in. But it was altogether apparent that his pant leg was caught on something in the black van's cab. And now the driver was recovered enough to fire on him.

"Get in, you bastard, come on!" Lovino shouted at him.

"I'm stuck!" Ludwig shouted back.

"Stuck? That's no fucking excuse!"

Another shot sounded, and Ludwig could feel the wind it caused against his clothing as it flew past. The bullet flew out of the window and embedded itself just above Lovino's window. The driver was starting to regain his aim.

All at once, Ludwig knew how much of a risk he would pose if he were to keep the two vehicles attached with his body. Lovino and Feliciano both were in the line of fire, and they could risk injury or worse for his sake.

He peered up at Feliciano. "Feli, let me go."

Feliciano's eyes widened. "What?"

"Let go of my arms. I can't let you—"

"No!" Feliciano shouted, tears pushing at the corners of his eyes, the familiarity of the situation making itself starkly known in his mind's eye. "Shut up, Luddy! Just shut up!"

There was a sudden _crunch_ as the black van was struck once again from behind. At first, Ludwig's heart beat with such force he thought his ribs would crack, but then he found with much shock that he was no longer snagged.

Ludwig didn't know exactly how he managed to get into the safety of the van nor did he want to. The next thing he knew, he was crawling out of Lovino's lap, the man expressing his discontent in a string of curse-laden Italian. Feliciano was pulling him the whole time, not letting up until he had Ludwig in his arms.

"You're stupid, Luddy!" Feliciano was shouting, his voice quivering with tears. He held the exhausted Ludwig tightly, pressing the man's sweaty head to his chest as they sat in the passenger's seat. "You're so stupid. Don't you ever do that again!" He examined him for a moment and gasped. "Luddy, you're bleeding!"

Ludwig knew he should be telling Feliciano to get down in the back of the van, but all he could do was dig his fingers into the man's coat and rasp, "Feli…"

Lovino scoffed. "Leave the stupid romance for some other goddamn place. Ludwig will be fine; someone with such a thick fucking skull shouldn't be hurt. Right now we need to— _shit_."

The Italian's eyes darted to the side mirror and the other's eyes soon followed. Feliciano gaped. "They're going to crash!"

"Nein," Ludwig said, regaining his composure and sliding into the back of the van. He took Feliciano with him. His eyes locked onto the reflection, and he gave a disbelieving smile. "Only one of them will crash." _I would have done the same myself, you cocky bastard._

Knowing what was coming, Lovino steered their own van away while the black one swerved under the onslaught of Ivan's ramming. The man seemed determined to crush the whole backside, the rear bumper already hanging off and leaving bright vermilion sparks where it screeched along the road. Desperately, the driver of the black van turned away, preventing Ivan from rear-ending the van for a fourth time. The Russian punched the gas in response, pulling up until the front of his vehicle was positioned beside the black van's rear.

Then Ivan twisted the wheel opposite, making his own van jerk sharply to the left. Before the driver of the Organization man could escape, Ivan made a sharp right.

The vehicles collided, steel caving in with a whining groan. The bumper fell completely off, skidding past Ivan and his passengers, the man just barely avoiding it. All it took was that one push. Then the black van was tottering on two of its wheels, the wind finally choosing to aid them rather than hinder, knocking the vehicle onto its side. The driver had been going so fast trying to get out of range that the van continued to scream across the asphalt until it hit the concrete-and-steel pillar of an overpass. The front was immediately conclave, the column burrowed into it as far up as the cab. Ludwig thought he spotted the stark whiteness of an airbag going off, and then he knew for sure that the man inside was dead.

The van was still smoking when they heard another jarring crash. This one came from behind them, and they soon saw their truck tipped onto its side, the tires of its upturned side spinning while the rest lay still and silent, smothered in five feet of snowdrift.

* * *

Translations:

 _gāisǐ de-_ damn it

 _Мой Бог_ -My God

 _Scheißkerl_ -Motherfucker

A Word From the Writer: Wow, shit went downhill fast. And how about that modern juggernaut Germany, eh? I just had to write him doing something awesome and ballsy. Meanwhile, you got England doing some crazy shit in his own vehicle. The logic behind that will be explained next chapter. Now, go forth, my fangirls, and read! XD


	90. Broken Things and Waiting Wings

**Just your regular action and depression.  
**

Warning: Angst, dangerous situation, weapons, general sadness.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Broken Things and Waiting Wings**

_You're fucking crazy, Al,_ Matthew thought in disbelief as he beheld the man moving around in the bed of the truck, attempting to retrieve weapons and ammo while being jostled by the vehicle. "I can't believe he'd do something like this," Matthew said, more irritated at Alfred than nervous. Why would anyone ever think that climbing into the back of a moving truck with a giant-ass fucking gun staring them down was a sensible idea?

_You're not invincible anymore, you moron._

"Matthieu," Francis shouted over the din of bullets and engines. "We must get down."

Matthew was reluctant to take his eyes off his brother, but he knew that Francis would be all the more stressed if he refused, so he did what the man asked of him.

Arthur, meanwhile, was having trouble remaining focused. His heart was in his throat, and it could have jumped from his mouth every time he saw Alfred stumble in the back. He was for once at a loss. There was no way they were coming out of this unscathed.

He jumped and nearly whipped the wheel to the side with the sound of gunfire. It was deafening and close and accurate, the back window riddled with holes in seconds flat. _Christ_ , Arthur thought, blood rushing in his ears. _They've got a fucking machine gun._

The back window shattered in a shower of glass shards, spilling over Matthew and Francis as they covered their heads. Arthur felt bullets imbed themselves in the back of his seat. The hair on the back of his neck rose when he could feel the heat from one of them seeping through his headrest, dangerously close his skull. He decided right then that he would do anything to be out of such a situation—not an impressive feat, as everyone would. But his plan completely changed course when he heard gunfire and looked into his mirrors again.

Alfred was gone.

Reality hit him like a cinder block to the chest. All the breath went out of him in a suffocating rush, only then to flood back in with his rapid breathing. His hands shook where they were white-knuckled on the arc of the worn steering wheel. His head pounded with every round blast, every second he remained in the same position, sitting and pressing forward, lead littering the cab. He glanced at the mirrors again, just to be sure, but there was still no Alfred.

 _Oh my God,_ Arthur thought immediately. He had gone over just what he would do if something like this happened, but he hadn't expected the weight to be so heavy. _Look at what you did, Alfred. You idiot yank, what did I tell you?_ Even so, he was far from irate. He was… he knew what the emotion was, but he was not willing to admit he possessed it. He hadn't seen Alfred hit. For all he knew, the fool could just be crouching down in the back, still rummaging through those stupid bags. But the more Arthur thought on the possibility, the more he discredited it. Alfred would hide, yes, but only for as long as necessary. It had been far too long since Arthur last saw him.

"Arthur!" Francis yelled, nails ripping the upholstery as he was thrown across the seats to smash into Matthew. Arthur had jerked the truck to one side and his foot was pressed all the way down on the accelerator. Ninety, ninety-five, one-hundred and ten, one-hundred and twenty—

" _What are you doing?_ " Francis practically screamed. Arthur had swerved sharply, guiding the truck toward the shoulder where a guardrail sat waiting to crush them. He snatched Matthew up and forced him down between the seats, fitting himself in with him, anticipating a crash. But he couldn't believe it. His eyes locked on Arthur, but the man's eyes were forward, unblinking, blank. He was so still he could be a corpse.

They were within a measly twenty feet of the rail when Francis knew truly Arthur's intentions. They were still picking up speed, and at such a velocity the impact would be fatal. But Arthur did not show any sign of fear, or rather any emotion whatsoever. _No,_ Francis thought, clutching Matthew to him and sputtering out a stream of apologies in French. I'm sorry this is happening. I'm sorry I can't save you. I'm sorry we have to die this way. I'm sorry I couldn't keep my promise.

 _No,_ Francis kept thinking. _No, this is not happening. Arthur would never do anything like this, he wouldn't—"Arthur!"_ Francis cried and held tight to Matthew, the rail rushing forward to meet them.

He waited and waited, and then… the truck swerved.

It was so unexpected and sudden that Francis at first didn't know if he was dead or still alive. But when he gathered the courage to peer up, he saw Arthur taking the wheel hand over hand, the tires screeching their protest below them. The smell of smoking rubber was choking. The stench invaded his nostrils and made his eyes water, but it could have been the sweetest scent he'd ever encountered if it meant that he was still whole. Francis was just finding the courage to breathe when he was thrown to the side, holding onto the seat as he was jarred, the van tipping forward sharply then listing sideways.

It was his fault. The van was tumbling into the dip at the bottom of the hill, submerging in snow that climbed up the passenger's side because Arthur had been reckless in a moment of panic. He yelled when he was pulled down with the vehicle, falling and scrabbling at the dash until his seatbelt locked and caught him around his chest and gut, nearly strangling him. It all happened so fast that Arthur barely had time to thank God he had avoided the guardrail. He faintly heard what sounded like a crash not far away, but he was too caught up in the pain dealt by his leg being snagged beneath the brake to pay it much mind. He was so winded and dizzy that his vision speckled black for a minute before he regained his sight and realized he was hanging sideways in the cab and all was still and quiet. His head throbbed. He must have hit it on the dash and not known it. "Ah…" He put a shaky hand to his head and pulled it back, observing blood staining his palm. Altogether his heart began to race, and he struggled to free himself from the suffocating seatbelt, the likes of which had given him a raw rash and practically choked him as it had dug in—but at least he had swerved far enough away to avoid the airbag. He eventually collected himself enough to have the sense to unbuckle the damn thing. He yelped as he plummeted to the passenger's seat, over the middle compartment, skin bruising, receiving a shock of cold as he landed on a mound of intruding snow and shattered glass. He hastily climbed back over the middle compartment, glass digging into his palms as he hauled himself over, using the center console to crouch shakily upon and examine the mess he had created.

"Francis?" he called, his voice raspy and quivering. "Matthew?" His throat convulsed and he couldn't call for Alfred. Because Alfred was… there was no way he could be…

_Please, don't let me have killed them._

He heard something shift and was grateful for the distraction. A few misplaced blond locks moved ever so slightly and a feeble voice drifted to him from below. "Arthur, I'm here…"

"Francis." Arthur gripped the driver's headrest and extended tentative legs over the console, moving himself to sit on top of the tipped passenger's seat, wincing with a dull pain that crept up his hip. He peered down, regarding a very still, very pale Francis lying sprawled on the snow that had managed to punch through the side windows closest to the ground. Bits of the window littered the surface along with stark drops and smears of blood. His limbs didn't appear injured beyond bruising, but his forehead was bleeding and blood was caking the base of his skull. He lifted a withering hand, flecked with shining bits of glass and the blood they extracted. Slender fingers flexed, grabbing at empty air. "Oh Dieu merci, tu es bien."

"Yes," Arthur choked out, and his throat became scratchy with guilt. "I'm sorry, Francis."

"Don't," Francis told him, his voice straining as he struggled to sit up. He held his back. "A-ah, the g-glass…"

Arthur shook his head, denying to himself the fact that he had done this. He swung himself down into the now vertical back seat, the harsh pain in his thigh from the bruise he'd earned from the crevice he'd fallen into earlier barely a low hum in the back of his mind. He gingerly dug his shoes into the cushions so that he had one foot wedged between them with the other positioned behind Francis's hunched form. He gathered the man in his arms, smelling dirt and snow and blood. "Francis, you're hurt. I'm sorry."

Francis grunted and tried to get his feet under him. "Non, it's not your fault. You were trying to escape."

Arthur swallowed dryly. _I was trying to thwart them._ Arthur had thought that by rushing toward the shoulder and swerving at the last minute that the Organization van would just continue on careening and smash into the guardrail. Instead of them getting away clean, Arthur had overestimated the abilities of the truck and here they were, nursing wounds from a plan that could very well have killed them.

"Matthieu," Francis called, his voice still trembling with the affects of shock. He had managed to get into a crouch, though he felt his legs were close to giving out. His head ached like hell and his fingers and face were close to numb, but when he saw the glass imbedded in his palms he was surprised to find that he did not feel a thing. "Matthieu." Francis's voice rose in anxiety as he found the boy, prying him out from the floor between the upended seats. He was alarmed when Matthew tumbled down onto the protruding mound of snow. Francis gathered him up in his arms, and Arthur's heart plummeted.

Matthew groaned and cracked open his eyes. "O-ow…" He got his hands under him, not minding the glass sticking into his skin, hoisting himself shakily upward. He held his head and his hand slid down to rub his sore neck. "Shit."

"Are you hurt?" Francis fussed, straightening Matthew's hair and plucking the glass out of his palm.

Matthew blinked, dizzy. He had been seeing double for a good few minutes now, and it was not because he had lost his glasses in the crash. He saw them now, scratched a bit but otherwise undamaged. "I… ah, I-I hit my head on the door when the van tipped." He rolled his neck around, hearing something pop. It ached, as his head had kind of been smashed into it for a second, but overall nothing seemed broken. He peered up at Francis and Arthur, seeing four where he should have seen two. "Ugh, I'm a little dizzy… my eyesight's still a bit jarred." He blinked a few times, slowly, before realizing he should have seen six people before him. "Where's Al?"

Arthur's mouth dropped open then. "Oh my God." And he clawed his way up the seats, squeezing the toes of his shoes into any crevice he could find, his bruised leg screaming as he forced his way up, arms shooting out to grip the window frame. He pulled the latch to open the door, but it was too hard to open in his position. The window was rolled up, but suddenly Arthur didn't see that as any sort of insurmountable barrier; he drew back and jammed his fist right through it, shards flying past him and raining down on the men below as they covered their heads and yelled in alarm. He hooked his fingers onto the slick outside, blood running down his wrists from the sharp glass. His mind, however, was too occupied to register such pain. Alfred had been in the bed of the van when it had overturned. He was laying somewhere, dying slowly…

He yanked himself up and through the window, adrenaline providing him strength he never thought he could possess. He felt nothing—not the glass in his hands nor the pain in his leg, the ache in his skull. _Alfred,_ he thought as he slid down the side of the vehicle, arms jarring on the foot step as he went over it, his legs buckling only a little as he hit the ground from five feet in the air. He stumbled a bit, hands going out to catch himself on the snowy ground. He barely felt his wounds sting in protest of the cold. _Alfred._

He managed to straighten himself out and his eyes darted around quickly and thoroughly, scanning the little, snow-packed dip he was currently standing shin-deep in. When he saw nothing immediately, he trudged forward through the drift, cursing it for inhibiting his speed. "Alfred!" he called, shaking from adrenaline rush and angst. "Alfred, where are you?"

He finally picked his way around the back, noting that the bed of the truck was empty, as he expected. Their packs had tumbled out, scattered across the snow and leaking their heavy contents. He followed the line of mess with his eyes until he saw a dark, still mass sprawled across the whiteness. He ran toward it.

"Alfred!" he shouted, reaching him and going to his knees. The man was face down in the snow, blood smeared beneath his head and his glasses lying crumpled and broken a few feet away. With trembling hands, Arthur seized Alfred's shoulders and turned him over. His eyes grew wet and burning. "A-Alfred."

His face was nearly blue on one side from the chill of the snow. The source of his bleeding came from a long cut just under his bruised eye, already shriveled shut and swollen. He felt so cold when Arthur felt for a pulse. "God." It was faint, but it was still there. He pulled his hand away and took Alfred into his arms. "Alfred," he muttered, slapping his cheek. "Alfred, come on, now. Open your eyes." When the boy still did not wake up, Arthur's lips began to quiver with an impending sob. "Alfred, please." He took Alfred's hand in his own and squeezed it. It didn't squeeze back. "No," he whispered. "Come on, yank. Stupid, stupid yank, don't you leave. I haven't told you I'm sorry yet, dammit."

Arthur was so engrossed in his impending grief that he didn't hear the snow crunching behind him. "Is he…?"

Arthur turned his head to see Ivan standing a few feet away, chest heaving, the doors to his van open and abandoned. The Russian had been so anxious to get to the wreck that he unintentionally popped his shoulder back into place with how hard he had opened his door. Tears burned down Arthur's frozen face. The sight of Ivan's eyes widening and lowering made Arthur turn back around.

Alfred opened his one good eye and blinked up at him, wind-chapped lips parting. "Fuck… I-I feel like shit."

Arthur let out a quivering breath and gave a small smile. "Stupid," he muttered, squeezing Alfred's hand again. Alfred instinctively squeezed back, his grip a bit weak. Arthur rubbed at his teary eyes with his other hand. "I'm sorry, Alfred."

"'S fine, bro." Alfred waved a dismissive hand and tried to sit up only to become dizzy and fall back down again.

Arthur caught him and his nerves kicked in again. "Alfred, don't close your eyes, okay? Whatever you do—"

Then all of a sudden Ivan was standing over him. Arthur stared at him as he crouched down, scooped Alfred up in his arms, ignoring the twinge it caused in his recently righted shoulder, and proceeded to walk to the open van. Arthur jumped up to join him, grabbing Alfred's broken glasses, the way Alfred was laying limply with eyes hooded and face pale making his stomach do back flips. "Ivan…"

"More will come," the Russian said, Arthur struggling to keep up with his fast pace. He set Alfred gently upright in the back seat and strapped him in. He brushed the hair from the American's face and muttered, "Не оставляй меня," before turning and shouting, "Everyone back to the vehicles!"

No one asked any questions. No one hesitated. Arthur and Ludwig ran over to help Francis and Matthew out of the wreckage and into one of the intact vans in a flash. They fetched the slightly dented snowplow from the front bumper of the damaged truck and attached it to one of the vans. Whatever gas that could be salvaged from it was promptly siphoned and stored. Yao, Kiku, Lovino, Feliciano, and Ludwig all crammed into one van while Matthew, Arthur, Francis, Alfred, and Ivan took to another. The Russian opened the driver's side door and made to step in when he felt a hand on his shoulder, pulling him back.

It was Arthur. "I can drive." They met eyes and they both knew what Arthur meant: Ivan could be in the back with Alfred, which was just as well. Ivan looked too flustered to be doing much of anything but tending to Alfred.

So Arthur swallowed his angst, swallowed his guilt, swallowed his fear and let it all sit heavily in his stomach, just waiting to come back up. He slid into the driver's seat with Francis in the passenger's, and they both exchanged identical glances.

"I'll kill them," Arthur swore before following Yao at breakneck speed, driving past the totaled truck stuck in the snowdrift and the black Organization van next to it that was smashed on the guardrail. Arthur's plan. Arthur's victory. Arthur's mistake.

Next time it would be different.

* * *

They decided to throw off the Organization's scent by making a detour to Cleveland, Ohio. They took route 90 and got off just outside it, pulling into a silent neighborhood to locate cars from which they could siphon gas. It wasn't hard—so many people had abandoned their homes, been locked up, or killed in riots that a variety of vehicles lined the streets. However, most appeared looted, the glass broken and the cab strewn with useless items. These were the vehicles they discovered were devoid of fuel as well.

They did not split up nor did they give up. It took them till nightfall, but they did manage to procure a few gallons of gas. They divided their findings between the two remaining vans before agreeing that it was too dangerous to stop anymore. They resolved to drive continuously to the capital from then on. They would each take turns driving in five-hour shifts (except for Feliciano and the injured, understandably). It wasn't until Alfred began to slip in and out of consciousness that they were forced to stop and make him walk around in the brisk cold to wake him up. He hadn't been allowed to sleep ever since the crash for fear of him never waking up again. Ivan spent much of his time tending to Alfred's injuries, murmuring to him Russian words everyone seemed to understand, and acting as his crutch as he took his nightly walk to keep him awake and relieve himself. By one in the morning, after many instances of Alfred nearly blacking out, Matthew stopped the van.

"We can't keep doing this," the Canadian said, examining Alfred's pale face and squinting eyes. He himself was aching and had insisted on sharing the load of driving, but it was all starting to catch up to him. His neck was burning and every limb was sore from being tossed around like laundry in the rolling van only hours earlier. Couple that with the fact that Alfred was getting worse by the minute, and Matthew didn't know how much more he could take.

Arthur was grateful that someone had spoken up. It was his turn to drive next, and his nerves were far too frayed to even possess the ability to guide a vehicle. Kiku had pulled the other van up next to them and said, "We are stopping?"

"Oui," Francis told him solemnly before opening the door and going around to the back to fetch the tents.

Arthur tore himself away from Alfred to follow him. "What do you think you're doing? The Organization members could be only a few hours behind, and you want to set up _camp_?"

Francis shook his head and plucked the needed items from the heap in the back, offering them to Arthur who subconsciously took them. "What else can we do, cher?"

The hollowness in Francis's voice startled Arthur as well as the solemn nature of the moving bodies around him. They had come close to death more times than anyone cared to count, and the constant paranoia and stress were taking a toll on them. They were all so exhausted from being so wound up, that it was a slow struggle just to get everything set up. But it had to be done; Alfred needed to stretch out for a while as well as Francis and Matthew, and Arthur didn't realize that he still had glass in his palms until Yao pointed it out and set to plucking the shards free.

Ivan carried Alfred out of the van, bundled up in a sleeping bag, a mist manifesting before Alfred's face reassuring Arthur that he was still breathing. No one got to see him for very long, however. Ivan rushed him to their tent, as if worried the cold might snuff him out, and no one dared disturb them.

In the end, Matthew slept alone. He didn't want to intrude on anyone's privacy and he felt like he needed to deal with his troubles by himself. He couldn't keep having everyone coddle him, relying on them to take away the pain for him. He had to get through it himself or else he would never have the strength to destroy the Organization as he wanted.

In their own tent, Francis and Arthur were far from grateful. They barely noticed the feeling among all the others swirling around inside them. They knew they needed to eat, as they hadn't eaten since the night before, but they both knew they were too high-strung to keep anything down. Instead, they gulped some water and curled up together in their sleeping bag, too shaken to even talk to each other. Arthur's apology was given in the form of an embrace, and Francis acknowledged it by accepting the Briton's arms around him. Francis's whole body ached, but at least it felt good to have a warm body beside him, holding him. He needed Arthur, and Arthur needed him. That was all it took to make the pain obsolete.

So Matthew settled down alone, Arthur and Francis took solace in each other's company, Ludwig was holding Feliciano, Yao and Kiku were sleeping with their backs to each other in separate sleeping bags, Ivan was doing anything he could to keep Alfred warm, deeming it safe enough to allow him to sleep, and Lovino sat alone in his tent, once again, braiding the twine they'd gotten from the safehouse so very long ago. The swirling pattern the twine made as he wound it as well as the repetitive actions it offered, distracting him from his building misery.

He went through all the twine in an hour, and regrettably set the finished product down, examining it. It was certainly one of the more pleasant things he'd seen since the start of the Uprising, though he supposed that was because it had offered a place for most of his sorrows to reside. But there were some that he just couldn't get rid of in such a way.

He rummaged through his pack and located a letter he had received from Toni just before he had gone over to his house before the Uprising (and a pen he'd just happened to bring). He was always telling the man to just text or call him, but for some reason Toni thought it would be better to stuff his mailbox with all sorts of cheesy letters. This one was no different. Lovino turned on a flashlight and began to read.

_Mi Tomate Lindo,_

_It is that time again, amor! I have everything ready for our week together. I know you haven't been responding to my letters, but I hope you read this one. I really miss you, Lovi, and I want to see you._

_I know we are not exactly in fit positions to be visiting each other, but just seeing your face will make everything better. Please come over, Lovi. I promise I won't be all romantic like you hate. But how can I help it? You are my amor—my everything. I need you now more than ever, and no matter how much you may deny it, I know you need me. So hurry up and get over here!_

_Forever yours,_

_Toni_

Lovino swallowed around the prickly lump in his throat and his eyes grew sore trying to suppress tears. He forced himself to turn the paper over and began to scrawl out his feelings on the back. Everything, all of the pain he'd gone through, his regrets, his guilt, the crushing weight of the world. His horrid handwriting only served to remind him just how long it had been since the Uprising began and his life began to unravel.

When he was finished, he signed his name, taking solace in seeing his signature—the one he should have put on his letters back to Toni. He took the paper in his hands and read over Toni's letter, then flipped it around, reading his own script, procrastinating. He must have laid for hours like that until his bladder protested. Sighing, Lovino folded the letter up and set it neatly by his sleeping bag and picked up the twine, deciding it looked good enough to tie around his waist—the burden he had brought upon himself and so should naturally wear.

He pulled open the tent flap and stepped out into the chill of the night, captivated by the Moon and the wide dusting of stars more than ever before.

"It really is a beautiful night," he told himself as he sauntered off toward the trees, leaving footprints of his bare feet in his wake.

* * *

Translations:

 _Dieu merci, tu es bien_ -Thank God, you're okay

 _Не оставляй меня_ -Do not leave me

 _Tomate lindo-_ Cute tomato

A Word From the Writer: ... Jeez, the mood ever darkens. Just add a flock of ravens and storm clouds swirling overhead, and you've got yourself a one-way ticket to Sad Valley. Apart from that, yay, we're finally getting somewhere! I admit, I didn't want to have them stop somewhere this time and run into a bad situation there, so I improvised and thus car chase. It's really moving along now, and in a couple more chapters they'll have reached the capital, more or less entirely intact. You'll understand next post.


	91. Catching Nirvana

***sigh* Here we go...  
**

Warning: Angst, sad stuff, a sensitive character death (yes, another one. Toldja they'd come fast).

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Catching Nirvana**

Feliciano winced in his sleep before shifting a bit in Ludwig's arms. His face twisted again moments later, and this time he squirmed so much that he was forced awake. Feliciano looked around the tent, the dark closing in on him and something much more sinister. Frightened and confused, the Italian nudged Ludwig until the German cracked open his eyes, none too pleased.

"Ja, Feli, what is it? Monsters? I already told you—"

Feliciano shook his head. "N-no," he stammered and suddenly he began to shake. He peered at the flap of the tent, unblinking. "Something's wrong."

The only time Ludwig had seen Feliciano in such a state was when he had been staring up at the sky through the top of their tent just before Gilbert's death, mumbling nonsense about the stars falling and a bloody head. There had to be something definitely wrong for Feliciano to look like that.

"All right," Ludwig muttered, slipping out of the sleeping bag they were sharing and tugging on his coat and boots (he slept somewhat clothed; it was still hard to think of Feliciano as anything but innocent), motioning for Feliciano to do the same. The Italian complied hesitantly, almost too scared to follow Ludwig out of the tent and into the night.

"Well," Ludwig said, examining the calm night. He surveyed the road and confirmed that no other vehicles but their own were occupying it. What could possibly be wrong? Ludwig narrowed his eyes and returned them to Feliciano, who was standing, shivering, beside him. "You did not need to make up a story so that you could pee, Feli. You do not have to be embarrassed; it is a natural bodily func—"

"No!" Feliciano exclaimed indignantly, and Ludwig balked at his sudden and unusual change in behavior. The Italian's eyes circled the camp once before falling on Lovino's tent. Poor Lovino. He must feel so lonely…

And yet. Feliciano walked toward the tent, and the closer he got the faster his feet moved across the snowy ground. Ludwig could only stare as Feliciano pulled aside the flap of the tent and disappeared inside. The German was reluctant to follow him, and for good reasons. He had no part in the relationship between the brothers, and he didn't want to intrude on their privacy. He just wondered how long it would take and why in the world he had been woken up to—

Ludwig stiffened as he heard a loud cry. He began to rush toward the tent only to see Feliciano emerge, weeping and waving a piece of crumpled paper in his hand. Before Ludwig could gather the ability to ask what was wrong, the Italian cried in a broken voice, "Lovi! He's gone! Th-this letter. He left it!" He practically threw it at Ludwig, and the German quickly righted it and read the front.

He raised an eyebrow. This was a… love letter. He gave the man before him a peculiar look. "Uh… Feli?"

"On the back!" Feliciano said with exasperation, and Ludwig promptly turned it around. The further his eyes traveled down the page, the more troubled they became. When he was finished, he knew what was going on. He shoved the paper into Feliciano's hands before rushing around to shake the tents, shouting at everyone to wake up.

"Ai-ya!" Yao exclaimed irritably. His head popped out of the tent, his hair askew. "What is going _on_?"

"I might ask the same question," Arthur said, zipping up his coat as he too exited his quarters, followed by a weary Francis.

There were many similar protests and questions thrown at Ludwig until the German told them all to shut the fuck up and listen. Nobody disobeyed.

"Feli went into Lovino's tent and found a disturbing note he had written," Ludwig explained. He didn't want to elaborate, for he didn't know if what he was thinking had actually happened. No need to add extra angst to the mix for no reason. "He took off somewhere into the woods. We must find him. His footprints reveal that he is barefooted, and he could easily freeze."

"Groups of three?" Ivan suggested, and they all gathered themselves into search teams.

They had no fear of splitting up in the woods. All the brush was bare and the only things that only slightly obscured their vision were the wind-parched tree trunks. They picked around in the snow, following Lovino's footprints before branching out when the snow became sparse beneath the spindly black limbs of the pines. They called Lovino's name, mistaking trees for shadowed figures only to examine them further before discovering their mistake. Since there was such a lack of foliage, it did not take long for them to locate Lovino, and when they did they realized how ironic it was to mistake a tree for the missing Italian.

The feet dangled off the ground, mere inches from salvation. The head was lolling lifelessly, and the rope tied around the neck below was composed of the twine they had taken from the safehouse, so delicately woven together by fingers now stiff and black. The limbs shifted with sickening limpness with every whisper of wind, ruffling the hair aside to reveal the cold, pale face beneath. They all stood and saw the hanging body, but they did not see Lovino.

Feliciano burst into tears after his initial shock and attached to Ludwig, who in turn was so taken aback that no words could come to his lips. "Holy hell," Arthur muttered, hand over his mouth. After a few moments of such expressions of dreaded surprise, Matthew threw out his arms and shouted, "For God's sake, someone cut him down!"

Ivan swept aside his coat and produced his pickaxe, slicing through the thick twine. Lovino toppled to the ground, sprawled and cold with death. Feliciano fell to his knees and scooped his brother up into his arms, hiding his face in Lovino's shirt and sobbing. Everyone just looked on, some studying the frayed strands of twine now swinging from the branch, others staring at the corpse that used to be someone they had known for centuries. Gone, just like that. It was almost too much to take in.

"Lovi," Feliciano cried, his grip like a vice around his brother's body. "Why, Lovi, why? I loved you. I could have helped!"

Feliciano sat there, rocking, a mess of tears and snot and whimpers, muttering Lovino's name over and over again. A name that had no place now. Matthew couldn't watch, feeling sick to his stomach at the thought that he himself had almost gone the way Lovino had, and this would have been the result. His fingers went to his wrist bandages and picked at them to distract himself from Feliciano's agonized wails. What had he been thinking?

There was the crunching of snow, and they all turned to see Alfred making his way to them. He was wobbling a bit and appeared a little too pale, but he managed to lean on Ivan's shoulder, take in what was happening, and say what they were all thinking: "It never ends."

Ludwig truly felt the weight of the world crushing him to the ground. Three had died under his command, one his own brother. His hands shook as he held the letter Feliciano had given him to read, the words of a dead man. He cleared his throat, but the tremor in his voice did not subside. "L-Lovino left this… um." He lifted the letter so everyone could see and began, " _Feliciano, for all of your obliviousness, I hope you understand that this is not your fault. This is no one's fault. It's not even my fault. It was my fate that I should end up without a partner, but I wasn't just going to lie down and take it. I was going to beat it. I refused to live in misery. And so I wrote this and went off to battle and won. My death is not a painful one._ " Ludwig paused to clear his throat. It felt like a rock had been lodged in it. " _It was my time, and I wasn't going to be killed like an animal by those bastards hunting us. I have found my place, Feli, and my place was not here. Tell everyone that I'm sorry it had to end this way and that they shouldn't feel guilty. I have done all I can, and now I'm going home._

" _Tell the potato bastard that I will visit him to personally kick his ass_ ," Ludwig gave a hollow laugh at this, " _if he ever hurts you. I never told you before, but I fucking love you, and you deserve to choose who you want to be with. I have no right to judge; I was with his fucking brother, for fuck's sake!_

" _I am dead, and you are alive, but this will not disrupt anything. You can rebuild Italy, Feli. For all of your dumbass ways, I know you can do it. Never doubt yourself; you are strong, whether you know it or not. There is no running away. You can only stand your ground and beat those fucker's asses until they regret ever underestimating you. As for me, I can rest. I've been so tired lately I didn't know what to do with myself. I would only hinder you, so I removed myself so that you can go ahead and do what you need to do to put the pieces of this broken world back together. Kick their asses for me, fratello!_

" _Don't worry about me. I am safe and warm and restored. I am with Toni and Gilbert again, damn the bastards. I can never escape them! Give yourself a chance. You are braver than I ever could be and stronger than anyone knows._

" _I only ask you to be happy for me, your kick-ass fratello and former personification of Southern Italy, Lovino._ "

Feliciano's cries picked up again and everyone else could only stare. It was as if everything was surreal; had the world really ended, had their friends just died, could they all die? Lovino couldn't be dead, and neither could Gilbert or Sadiq or Toni or Elizaveta or Roderich and definitely not Vash. They would all come back, right? The despair they felt was so great that it couldn't possibly be real.

And yet it was.

They were all tired, dehydrated, malnourished, and hardened. They had seen too much death to break down, and seeing Feliciano do so was almost an anomaly to them. They felt so disconnected from everything and everyone. In a world where anyone close to them, anyone they knew for hundreds of years, could die at any moment in any way, how could they bring themselves to be so attached? Later, when they had resolved to bury Lovino, they had no words to say. It was a silent funeral, if a funeral at all. They knew Lovino deserved better, but how could they be expected to regret his passing if so many of them considered going with him, thought him lucky to escape such hell?

It was a choice contemplated by everyone privately, though they all knew what was on everyone's mind. Lovino had bailed because he saw no hope. Those who had associated with them for as long as they could remember had perished. Were they too meant to do the same?

Lovino's grave was dug by Ivan, as per usual, and the body was rolled in and piled on with dirt once again—also as per usual. Death was becoming a constant companion of their's. They had lost three of their group—three pieces of the world—in little more than a week. How long would it be before they were completely wiped out?

They marked Lovino's grave with the cross Toni had given him, digging it into the ground so that it stood upright. It was so small, this little hope. And now they would leave it behind, just like they had everything else.

Feliciano cried for the rest of the night, his wailing keeping them all awake as well as their brooding. Partners slept in each other's arms without feeling the warmth of their closeness. They thought the same even without speaking. They lay in their tents until dawn, and as soon as the pale fingers of sunlight touched their camp, they were up, packed, and off, not looking back.

* * *

All was silent as they made their way past Cleveland and back onto route 76. Thankfully, no one was following them, but the tense quietude of their traveling was just as bad. When it was Matthew's turn to take the wheel, he only went three miles before he pulled the van to a stop. Ludwig stopped beside him, not questioning, just waiting. After all, who was he to take orders after having led three men to their deaths?

Matthew put the vehicle in park and folded his arms over the wheel, hiding his face in them. He gave a heavy, shaky sigh, and asked, "What are we doing, guys?"

No one answered because no one knew. Were they still going to fight, or was it too foolish to fight? After all that had gone down, they weren't exactly firm on their plans to usurp the Organization's power. The bastards had taken too much away from them already, and they could take much, much more.

Matthew glared at them like he had never glared before. "What is wrong with you people?" he snapped, tears pricking his eyes in frustration, though he wasn't so sure himself. He needed the support of his friends in order to avenge Sadiq's death, and he was determined to avenge it, desperately so. "W-we can't just give up."

A long minute ticked by before Ivan replied, "We never said that we had."

Matthew felt tears trailing down his face at that. He thought for a moment that he was going to be alone in everything. He never wanted to be alone again. "Then _prove_ it, goddammit! Don't just sit there and stare and feel sorry for yourselves. That's… that's not how it works. I can't do this on my own!"

Francis sat up and began, "I promise—"

"Get out," Matthew told them, and they all stared. Matthew couldn't stand those blank, sheeplike stares. "Get out of the van."

Matthew unlocked the doors and they all hesitantly filed out, unsure of what was happening and feeling helpless to do anything about it. Matthew opened his door and got out, motioning at Ludwig and his passengers to do the same. Before long, they were all standing in a disjointed circle, all eyes on Matthew.

Having gotten everyone out of the vans and gathered, Matthew was kind of stuck. His only goal had been a change of environment, freedom from the stifling silence that had come to dominate their trip. Now, however, he remembered a time long ago when they had all sworn they were in this together. And so Matthew stiffly put his hand out.

"I will do anything to stop the monster machine that is the Organization," he said without hesitation. "If I die, then at least I will die trying. I promise." He looked over at Francis who was standing next to him.

The Frenchman, while having been lost in his own thoughts for some time, did catch on and placed his hand on top of Matthew's. "I promise," he said, and his eyes repeated the two words.

And so it went down the line, around the circle until all the pieces were found and connected again. While the circle could never again be complete, they still had enough to hold the world together if they tried.

When the last person pledged everything to the cause for which they had agreed to pursue at the start of their journey, relief dominated their minds. Then all at once everyone felt whole once more, bodies revitalized, minds set back on track, and their desire for revenge stronger than ever before.

Matthew stepped back into the driver's seat and set a white-knuckled grip to the steering wheel. "Well?" he said. "Let's go. Time to bring the world to their doorstep."

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Yeah, so... another one down. I like to think that Romano is actually a strong person inside (which he is in this fic, if rescuing his brother amid gunfire wasn't enough), but there's only so much someone can take before they, you know... break. That was the message I was trying to give here. And, I mean, really who didn't see that coming? Two lovers lost in more or less the same fashion? In all honesty, I have been kinda grooming Romano for this end since I first started writing the fic. In fact, I have planned all of the deaths so far, but there is one I have yet to write that has kind of been the center of a back and forth in my head for a while before I finally decided to kill him off. I'll just leave you with that.


	92. Two-Faced Color

**Get ready for another OC!  
**

Warning: Angst, RusAme, Nichu, weapons, violence, threats, dangerous situation, fight scene, gore, OC.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Two-Faced Color**

They agreed they wouldn't stop until they reached D.C., which was only a few hours away. To think that only two months ago they'd landed in Montana and hadn't a clue how in the world they were going to get to the capital was more than extraordinary. They had renewed their bonds, yes, but that didn't mean there wasn't angst among them. They had come so far, it was impossible to turn back. Once they were within the district boundaries, they were committed with the whole of their lives to the sole mission of removing the Organization from power. Looking behind was not an option.

They ate the rest of their rations—they could not afford the extra weight once they reached the capital and there would certainly be no time to rest. In each van, they planned out ways to confront the Organization, agreeing to make one last stop just before they entered the district to confirm their 'Trojan Horse' strategy. When they could, they rested, knowing full well that as soon as they saw the white stone peaks of Washington D.C. sleep would flee them to never return until all was over.

Kiku was at the wheel when they arrived at the fateful exit that would take them off the interstate and into hell. In the other van, Alfred had recovered, though still lightheaded and black-eyed, but his one good eye never drifted from the window. "Here we go."

To say they were nervous was an understatement; most of them were regretting their eating binge, wanting to pull over and puke in the lane. But they withheld (mostly out of dignity), choosing instead to focus on the unseen point in the distance from which they could feel foreboding flowing like the heat of a million wildfires.

There was a sparse stretch of national forest between the road and the city, the latter being soon identified by the signs (and Alfred) as Bethesda. They were still in Maryland, which was a relief to all of them, but they were just west of D.C. They decided to pull off the road into a wooded area to pitch their tents for the night. It was noted among all of them that the wind wasn't so harsh here nor the weather as cold. The snow was mere inches instead of feet, though the environment was bittersweet compared to the location and the fight to come.

Ludwig volunteered to keep watch, and Feliciano insisted on joining him. Ludwig would have refused to let the weepy Italian accompany him, but then again he doubted Feliciano nonetheless the rest of them would be able to sleep.

Their plan was as follows: they would continue on into D.C., taking the neighborhood roads and keeping off the main ones that the Organization was bound to be patrolling, until they reached Cabin John Creek Park, which led all the way down to the upper arc of the Potomac. There, they would abandon their vehicles—as they would be less likely to be seen without them—and salvage some canoes Alfred knew to be stored at the shoreline, if not already taken. They would then row southeast, following the curve of the river. The national forests and parks that stood between the river and the roads would hide them, and they would stop as soon as they reached Theodore Roosevelt Island. They would rest and wait until dark to venture further in and then head for Independence Avenue, where the Organization's headquarters must be established. It was a half-baked plan and very risky at best, but none of them had been to or heard from D.C. for months and not once was it mentioned in any of the Organization's broadcasts where exactly they were centralized. They didn't have a lot to go off of, but they were there, short three members, and that was enough for them to dedicate themselves to their scheme.

They all watched the sun set in the cloudless sky, alighting it in delicate shades of seashell pinks and blazing oranges, chased by a dark indigo that carried stars and moon. It was one of the few sights all of them could agree was especially genuine and beautiful; no matter what, it never changed. They were all in a good mood, though that was mostly to mask their anxiety about the next day. They did not make a fire despite the cold, and they nibbled on some jerky Yao had found in one of the vehicles they'd siphoned near Cleveland. Compared to everything else that was going on, the tough dried meat was one of the highlights of their day. Gnawing on it provided a welcome distraction from their unfortunate circumstances.

As soon as Ludwig announced that he was starting his watch, their mutual retirement was signaled. They all returned to their respective tents and followed usual routine, but there was something about it that felt completely foreign to them. They'd had to fight for their countries. They'd had to fight for their people. They'd had to fight for their beliefs. But they had never had to fight for their own lives. It was the deep breath before the plunge, and not all of them were sure they'd taken in enough air.

As soon as Alfred was well he had returned to sleeping by himself, which wounded Ivan more than he felt comfortable to admit. Here they were, staring Death in the face, and Alfred was still choosing to act like a sulking child.

Ivan gave an audible huff and slipped into his own sleeping bag, watching Alfred's back facing him across the tent. His chest hurt, and he tried to convince himself that he didn't know why. He was caught between wanting to drive his fist through a wall and forcing himself on Alfred so that he could make love to him like he wanted, making Alfred _understand_. He knew neither was a proper choice and was caught sulking like a child himself, not knowing what to do. The frustration was overwhelming. After a time staring at Alfred's form rising and falling with breath, Ivan grabbed the hem of his sleeping bag, preparing to pull it off of himself. _This is ridiculous. I will have him sleep beside me, and I don't care if he doesn't—_

"Ivan."

It hurt Ivan that his name sounded foreign on Alfred's lips from lack of speaking it, but his attention was caught nonetheless. "Da, Alfred?"

Alfred did not respond for a moment, savoring his name in Ivan's voice, then continued in a meek tone, "I… th-thanks for, um, taking care of me." He shifted uncomfortably and didn't say anymore.

Ivan's spirits rose. "That was what I promised to do, Alfred. I keep my promises."

Alfred laid there, chewing his lip and brooding. He eventually turned over and faced the Russian, sitting up and crawling out of his sleeping bag. "Ivan," he called, but Ivan was already halfway there, their lips meeting in a messy clash of teeth. But neither party wavered in their passion; Alfred's arms pulled Ivan in about his neck, and Ivan's own arms gladly enveloped Alfred's waist. It hadn't been that long since they had held each other like this, but so much had happened between then and now that it felt like a thousand years had passed without the other's touch.

A minute in, and Ivan was close to laying Alfred down and taking him as he assumed the other man wanted, but then Alfred abruptly broke the kiss and retreated from his embrace. The American looked away and wiped his mouth, regaining his breath and adjusting his glasses which had been knocked askew in their desperation.

"Ivan, I…" he began, but he trailed off and before he could finish he had returned to his empty sleeping bag and wriggled back inside. All Ivan saw was the curve of his back once again. Before Ivan could even protest, Alfred said quietly and most regretfully, "It's an endless cycle, Ivan. I can't do this anymore."

Ivan was about to say something back, but he soon stopped himself. They had shared a kiss; maybe Alfred's words were only there to cover up his embarrassment of wanting him? It wouldn't be the first time that either of them had done the same. That could be the only reason. Because Ivan loved Alfred. How could the American not see that? He had waited all his life, endured his own endless cycle of loving Alfred. For years upon years, longer than Alfred had ever known or experienced, Ivan had chased Alfred to the ends of the earth and back, only wanting his desires to be acknowledged. And when he finally managed to get Alfred to follow him, the younger turned his back again. Again. Again and again and again. Ivan liked to think that something had changed within Alfred, and he also liked to think that many things had changed within himself. They had the potential to be lovers, and perhaps more. The only thing they needed now was time.

With as much tense chagrin as they needed for the night, they both settled down, but not once did they ever close their eyes. Alfred felt his lips with his fingers… chapped, but soft and wet with kissing, bleeding slightly from their rough ministrations. This could be the last time he ever kissed Ivan, but he didn't want to go any further than that. Because dying knowing you're leaving the person you love the most behind would be the most painful thing any two people could go through, and Alfred knew that Ivan had endured enough of such torment in his life to be undeserving of further sorrows.

 _For Ivan's sake,_ he kept telling himself, but the more he repeated the thought in his mind, the more he grew not to believe it.

* * *

Yao unrolled his sleeping bag and lifted the top to get in, only to feel eyes on him. Over the weeks, Kiku had gradually taken to sleeping by himself, and, as much as it pulled at Yao's heart, the Chinaman did not pressure the younger man into being intimate when he was hesitant to. Being apart from Kiku for so long made Yao realize the reasons behind the other man's aloofness, and he accepted it. Because Kiku was his brother and his love. He could never hate any part of him.

Those rich brown eyes were on him, and Yao stopped for a moment to admire. Kiku was fully clothed, nowhere close to getting settled down, while Yao was shirtless. For once, since the last time they'd last sincerely made love (which had been roughly around the time they had first gotten together, now that Yao recalled it), Kiku held his gaze.

Yao's heart swelled, and he leaned over, taking Kiku's thin wrist in his hand. He pulled the man to him and kissed him chastely on the lips. Hope rose in his chest when he was not met with resistance. He drew back and said, "I love you, yīnghuā,"—his mantra since Kiku's retreat.

He then went back to his sleeping bag, adjusting it and slipping his feet inside. "Yao," Kiku called, and Yao's head snapped up to see the younger man's fingers on his lips, a blush trailing across his face. Perplexed, Yao watched as Kiku looked away, hand dropping back down to his lap, and muttered, "I… I…" The next second Yao was sprawled on his back with Kiku hovering over him. His face was dark with embarrassment. "I missed you," he said in a small voice before locking his lips with Yao's.

"Mmf!" Yao hadn't had time to catch his breath before Kiku was obstructing his airway. He grabbed Kiku by the shoulders and pushed him back a bit, gasping. He peered up, and the other man was flushed and panting. Yao stared at him. "What… what are you doing, yīnghuā?" As much as Yao wanted it, it felt weird to be doing such things when only last night they had witnessed the aftermath of a suicide.

Kiku thought the same, but he retained his gaze with Yao and said rather uncomfortably, "Um… y-you wouldn't touch me anymore at night and… I-I thought that you didn't want me…"

Yao frowned. "You thought I didn't want you? But, Kiku, all I've been saying is how much I love you."

That was when Kiku's eyes finally broke away to examine a piece of Yao's hair, out of place from having its owner forcibly pushed down. "Yes, I know, I just…" Kiku knew there was no logical explanation to his worries. He just didn't want to admit that Yao was in love with him and he was in love with Yao. It was a strange feeling. A distracting feeling he didn't know he could afford to nurture but desperately wanted to.

Yao took Kiku's face in his hands and directed the man's eyes back to his own. "I love you, Kiku. Why do you doubt it?"

A foreign warmth went through Kiku then, and his heart began to do weird things in his chest. Words forced themselves up his throat and past his lips, words that he hadn't bidden. "Because I don't belive it."

Yao smiled and pulled Kiku down. "You are so cute when you are flustered."

Kiku began to sputter, but Yao captured his lips before anything else could escape. It had taken him too long to open up, too long to accept the fact that Yao was truly in love with him. He'd originally thought that what they had was just frivolous, but Yao's constant dedication to informing Kiku of his love for him had Kiku thinking otherwise. Only now, with hell staring them in the face, did he truly realize how much he had wasted the time they could have had together.

They kissed for a long time, until the sun set and the stars came out. By then Kiku had explored every inch of Yao's mouth, and desired something more, forgetting the troubles of the world. He broke their kiss to say, "It's cold."

Yao took that as a signal to wriggle into his sleeping bag and pull Kiku with him. He quickly went to work removing Kiku's clothes, fumbling with nerves, and a long five minutes later they were laying skin-against-skin, hands roaming to remap territory they had previously been apart from. They kissed, and Kiku's fingers threaded through Yao's hair, loosening it from the tie holding it back. Yao's hands ventured downward to grab Kiku's asscheeks, squeezing and pulling them apart. "Mmm," Kiku moaned, and grabbed Yao's shoulders, rolling himself beneath the other man. He peered up at him, eyes hooded, breathless, and blushing. "Please," he urged, and that was all he needed to say.

Yao was so aroused, he feared he could not properly administer to Kiku without going too fast and hurting him. So he whispered for him to wet his own fingers while Yao made love to every inch of skin offered to him. Kiku could barely do what Yao asked for all the moans forced from his lungs, and every kiss, lick, bite, or suckle rendered him near breathless. Every nerve was tingling, and by the time he slid his hand between their heated bodies to insert a slicked finger into himself, he was already hard and leaking.

"Y-Yao~" Kiku moaned as his nipple was dutifully sucked, and he ended up shoving two fingers into himself with such haste that he winced. Yao couldn't help but notice.

He planted kisses all the way up to Kiku's ear. "No rush."

"Please, oh…" Kiku groaned and hurriedly scissored himself. His ass was sore from the rough treatment, but he needed to feel Yao in him. He forced his fingers to stretch himself for a little longer to prevent the impending ache, but when Yao's hand trailed down to stroke his purpling erection, Kiku gasped, "Yao, oh Yao, mmn," and he removed his fingers to guide the man's cock into him. As soon as the head pushed with a sweet burn through the tight ring of muscle, Kiku dug his nails into Yao's back and keened. He'd never felt so embarrassingly desperate in his life.

"Kiku," Yao groaned as he was submerged in tight heat. He pushed his way completely inside and stilled, waitng for Kiku's signal. It came in the form of legs wrapping around his waist.

The younger man's hooded eyes met Yao's. "Move, please."

Yao held Kiku tight to him and began to thrust slowly. Every time he languidly rolled his hips against the other, Kiku would whine and shift, heels nudging him, urging him. Yao realized his plight and struck out to find his sweet spot. It wasn't hard—it was as if they'd never stopped parted. When he pressed it, Kiku saw stars and moved his hips upward into Yao's onslaught. His arms tightened around Yao's neck, fingers digging into the skin on his back. "Hai, Yao, a-ah…"

"You're so warm," Yao told him, peppering his partner's flushed face with kisses. "I love you, yīnghuā."

Kiku did not need any other stimulation; he came with his cock untouched, arching and throwing his head back against the ruffled material of the sleeping bag. Yao took advantage and riddled his neck with lovebites. "Yao~!" The name tore from Kiku's throat as he reached the height of his orgasm. Yao came shortly after, Kiku's insides squeezing possessively. He buried his face in Kiku's marked neck, breathing in his scent, murmuring his name.

They lay there afterward, Yao moving off and settling on his stomach, draping an arm over Kiku. His warm breath came in strained puffs against Kiku's neck, and he nuzzled against it, Kiku's hair tickling his nose. He gave a hum of satisfaction and kissed the skin before him. "Mm, you are not going to turn away, are you?"

Kiku turned over and kissed Yao's lips. His eyes met Yao's and remained steady, rich with acceptance and adoration. "No. I will always be right here beside you."

Yao then gave a sly smile, rolling over onto his back. "Want to make up for all those days apart?"

Kiku found himself returning the expression. He sat up and moved to straddle his lover. Might as well, considering they both couldn't sleep. "I'm all yours." His lips found Yao's, already so swollen with abuse, coaxing his partner's mouth open for another taste. Yao's hands roamed. One hand went to the back of Kiku's head, urging him nearer, while another slid over Kiku's thigh, traveling upward until he could feel—

A gunshot sounded, nearly deafening them with its closeness. They both jumped, Kiku almost falling over, and a moment later a bullet was smoking in the ground inches from them. Kiku propelled himself off of Yao and out of the sleeping bag, naked and shivering. "Ā kamisama!"

Yao kicked the sleeping bag off of him and scrambled for his pack where his gun lay stored. The cold didn't matter to him; adrenaline was burning through his veins as he unzipped the pocket and plunged his hand down inside.

The tent hissed as the front of it was shorn in two. Kiku went deathly silent, backing himself up until he was in the farthestmost corner. Yao's fingers brushed the grip of his gun just as a rattling voice ordered, "Unless you want your head blown off, I suggest you drop that and turn around."

Yao put his hands up and ruefully swiveled to take in the sight of a short man with a semi automatic shotgun in hand. The face of the new world resided beneath his worn gas mask.

Kiku didn't try to grab his katana. He knew after the bullet had punched through the ground beside them that there would be no chance of succeeding in anything but getting he and Yao killed by attempting to defend them. Instead, he covered himself and sat there, awaiting orders. The realization that he knew the procedure made him sick to his stomach.

The masked man's voice was warped and raspy from the filter. He motioned with his weapon. "Up, and get dressed. We're taking a trip."

They did as they were told, Kiku uncomfortable under the glass-eyed stare of the strange man. There was no confusing why he was taking them captive. The Organization had caught up with them, and now there was almost no chance of escape.

Once they were clothed, the masked man guided them with his gun out into the trees to join their other group members. Feliciano was sobbing, Ludwig was snapping at anyone who tried to come near, and Arthur was calling them every cruel name he could think of. He was compensating for his inability to seize control of their minds; there was something foreign about these men that Arthur couldn't place, couldn't construe, and it disturbed him. Never before had he been unable to subdue a mortal with magic.

He was shoved down to his knees beside his companions, glaring, eyes searching their captors'. _What are you?_ "You lowly, ignorant bastards. If you want justice, try planting a bullet in your own thick skulls and hope you meet a quick death."

There were four men in the Organization party and only that. But they had them cornered, and that was all it took to subdue them. It frustrated Arthur to no end.

A flaxen-haired man with a gap-toothed leer snapped his fingers. At his signal, two other members drew forward to snatch Arthur up and stuff a soiled rag into his mouth. They were interrupted by Alfred lashing out.

"Don't you fuckers touch him—!" was all he was able to shout before he was kicked onto his back and was staring down the barrel of the masked man's loaded 12 gauge. "Move again and you both die," he warned.

"Now that everyone is settled," said the man who was far too tan for his fair hair. "allow me to inform you of our procedures. We have been alerted by outlying comrades that you are nations that must be exterminated. Now, don't get too excited. That part is saved for the Overlord, or at least most of it." His eyes flitted to Alfred then, shifty and hollow. "Alfred Jones, you have escaped our grasp far too often. So, the Overlord has instructed me to execute you on sight to prevent any further trouble. You get to die before your friends. No waiting, no suspense." The man motioned for the masked man to take aim. "Lucky you. Then again you won't endure the tortures we have planned for you, but we have many ideas of how to defile your body. How 'bout we gut you and wrap your entrails around whatever's left of those monuments you love so much? Fitting, eh? Might even become a monument yourself." He redirected his gaze to the gunman and said, "Rusty, if you would do the honors."

 _Rusty?_ Alfred knew he should be thinking about other more important things, such as being killed, but the name struck him as familiar. Where had he heard that before? Whatever the case, it most certainly distracted him from his frightening fate.

Arthur squirmed and gave a series of muffled yells. Ivan tried to lunge toward Alfred only to be kicked in the stomach. He grunted, nearly retching, gagging, hunching over and clutching his stomach as he watched the gunman press his shotgun to the one he loved.

Ivan's shout of Alfred's name died on his lips with the sound of a fired bullet. His heart stopped, and a heavy, dreadful sensation the likes of which he had never felt before seized his lungs, making them convulse, clawing its way up his raw throat in a single, gasping sob. He felt as helpless as when he was a child.

But when his mind gradually reacquired the ability to perceive, Ivan's heart set to beating again.

Alfred was still sitting upright, staring unblinkingly at the masked gunman and his discharged weapon. There was an annoyed "Hey!" from the leader of the opposing members, and before anyone could comprehend what was happening the gunman turned swift on his heel and cocked his weapon, blasting a bullet between the eyes of his overseer. The nations were so shocked that they were rendered paralyzed, but the gunman's companions were exceptions. One let loose a string of curses before he ran at him and tried to connect his fist with the side of the man's face, but he was promptly blocked by an expertly raised forearm and grounded with a harsh push, the masked man stomping on one of his feet as he went down. The man shrieked as his leg caught and the bone snapped, forming a sharp mound beneath the skin by the time he was sprawled and blithering in the snow below. The remaining member rushed at the gunman next, wrapping his arms around the man's shoulders and trying to strangle him. But the man in the gas mask remained unsually calm, kicking backward at the opposing man's shin to render him unstable. The man yelled in pain and frustration, but he was just as soon screaming in agony as his nose was crushed into his skull by a hard head butt. His arms slackened, and the gunman wrenched loose to turn around, regarding the man standing on wobbly legs, holding his gushing nose. He couldn't move, couldn't run, the shock too great to enable any type of movement, as the masked man strolled up to him, pressed the long barrel of his weapon into the heaving stomach, and fired. The bullet tore through the man's insides and out of his back with a spurt of blood to lodge between Matthew and Arthur, who quickly came to and scrambled out of the way. The fatally wounded member could only cough up gluts of dark blood, collapsing backward onto the snow, gutshot, his stomach tearing open and the fat blue snakes of his intestines spilling out, painting the white drifts in a bloom of red. At this, the man with the broken leg whimpered, and the masked man remembered he'd yet to kill him and walked over to drive the butt of his shotgun into the blond's skull, crushing it inward like it was nothing more than an empty soda can.

Horrified at the figure that stood before them, the nations shrunk back—all but Alfred.

"Yank," Arthur hissed as Alfred remained still while the others retreated to a safer distance. "What are you _doing_?"

But Alfred ignored him in favor of examining the masked man further. Now that he saw it, the man did look a bit on the short side. And he knew that style, he knew those moves. How could he not when he was the one who used them himself?

The man threw down his gun then, and he raised his hands to pull off his mask. All of them were gaping as they were met with a round face surrounded by stark scarlet curls. But Alfred only smiled.

"Heya, Red."

* * *

Translations:

Ā kamisama!-Oh God!

A Word From the Writer: Okay, so I made up for the horrible suicide thing with Lovino by giving you some lemon, however weird the timing may be. But then I followed up with violence and gore and stuff, so no reprieve for you! Still, the Nichu was pretty cute, huh? How 'bout that gutshot scene, hm? Someone had to get gutshot sometime. And, about the OC. Just... think about it. They have been mentioned in this fic (that's why they're so familiar to America), but they haven't officially been 'seen.' This is the one I mentioned as being key to infiltrating the Organization. You know who it is. Trust me.

Anyone get the title? As in red can be the color of life and happiness as well as violence and death? No? All righty then. -_-

That bloody mindfuck of a scene will be explained... next time!


	93. Styx

**You'll find out a little more about the Organization.  
**

Warning: Angst, confrontation, mention of war and weapons, smoking, OC.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Styx**

The embodiment of Virginia gave a satisfied sigh and examined her work. "Ah, you don't know how long I've wanted to do that."

Alfred wrinkled his nose. "What kind of greeting is that?"

Red redirected her attention to Alfred and said somewhat offhandedly, "Oh, yeah. Hey, Pops."

Alfred's smile only broadened. "Ya know, I'm too happy to be offended by that."

"Kinda figured." Red took a big breath and exhaled, scratching her nappy head. Her signature red hair stretched down to just below her ears, some strands retaining their usual ringlet pattern. She scrubbed at her face. "Augh, I fucking _hate_ that mask. So stuffy and sweaty and it itches like _hell_."

Alfred's legs were still wobbly with the previous events of the night, and the sight of the gutted Organization member stretched out in the snow a few feet away made him want to throw up, but he extended his arms nonetheless. "My God, I thought you were dead."

Red walked toward him only to push his arms aside to examine the line of nations before him. "Ah, don't get all sappy. This place'll be swarming with Organization scum within the hour."

This was not the little girl Alfred had heard on the phone before he'd left his doomed apartment in Manhattan. That was a side Red seldom allowed anyone to see, a side only revealed when under intense stress and pressure. This was the real Red. Stubborn, indifferent, and no-nonsense. Pigheaded, New Jersey had once joked before one of his eyes was sporting a delicate purple complexion in the not-so-curious shape of seasoned knuckles.

Red crossed her arms and scanned her green eyes over what was left of all the nations of the world, her slightly bushy eyebrows coming together a bit when her gaze passed over the gagged Arthur. "England," she addressed coolly.

Arthur grunted in response before Francis had the sense enough to extract the rag from his mouth. The Briton spat a little and coughed, his words raspy. "Virginia, what, how…?"

"They called you Rusty," Alfred said, pondering. Then the answer came to him from the back of his frazzled mind:

_"… to Baron, Rusty to Baron, when will you give the all clear?"_

_"10 tomorrow morning… guns and grenades ready… all out assault on Terminal 3… finally smoke that bastard out…"_

Alfred's jaw dropped. "But you were… on the radio… Rusty, you, and-and—"

Arthur seemed to recall as well, and he stared in disbelief. "You were _working with them_?"

Red shrugged. "Yeah, I was there, and I was gonna storm that airport with them. Doesn't mean I was on their side, though."

Ivan eyed her suspiciously. "Well, do explain."

Red paused in her pacing to examine the area before returning her gaze to them. "We can't afford to stay here for much longer. Someone's bound to have heard those gunshots. We have to leave _now_."

Needless to say they weren't reluctant to get the hell out of that place. Feliciano was sobbing in shock of the gore and violence, and it was a struggle to get him calm enough to strap him into the van. All the while they were packing their things and cramming their belongings and themselves into the vans, Alfred's eyes were trained on his daughter. It was hard for him to imagine that she could kill so easily and violently, she who had the appearance of a sixteen-year-old—just like how he had killed so brutally himself earlier. But, then again, barely anything shocked him in this world now, especially killing. It had become a necessary trial of life, and if Red _was_ actually infiltrating the Organization, she would know all about that, possibly more than Alfred himself did.

Red caught him staring then, and it was only when she shoved him toward the door of a van and snapped, "Stop gawking, and get in!" that Alfred realized everyone had already taken their seats. Alfred stumbled inside. He noticed that the van wasn't nearly as crammed as it should have been, even when Red squeezed in beside him. The sadness and nostalgia silenced him, and everyone else followed suit, as if afraid the Organization would hear even a whisper, they were so close to their headquarters.

Now they were truly aware of how looming their victory or doom was.

Ivan was driving (Alfred would have commented on how scared shitless the Russian driving them was if he didn't remember what had conspired between them earlier that night), and Red directed him out of Bethesda, Yao, who manned the other vehicle, following them. They were soon rounding an onramp out to—

"Wait!" Alfred yelled so suddenly and so loudly that Ivan slammed on the brakes. They all slumped forward, and Matthew, who was sharing the backseat with Alfred, nearly broke his nose on the passenger seat's headrest.

Red whipped her head around. "What the hell, old man?"

Alfred blinked inanely for a moment, getting over the shock of their sudden stop to remember what he was going to say. After a few moments, he demanded, "Where are you taking us?"

Red scoffed, as if Alfred was supposed to know the answer. "Where else? _Away_."

" _Away_?" Alfred sputtered and stared at Red for a moment longer. When her determined gaze never wavered, Alfred unbuckled his seat belt and proceeded to tug at the door handle. "Open the door," he ordered of Ivan who only stared at him, at a loss as to Alfred's purpose. When Alfred gained no response, he began to pull quickly and harshly, as if trying to rip the thing off. "Open the goddamn door!"

Ivan, though hesitant, did as requested, and Alfred threw the door back so hard that the wheels used to guide it open snapped off their hinges and rolled helplessly in the groove beneath. He practically bounded out and, fists clenched and jaw set, he set off in the direction from which they came. Behind him, the passenger's side door flung open, and Red hopped out.

"Alfred!" she called in frustration. " _Where are you going_?"

Alfred didn't stop or turn back. Couldn't afford to. "I sure as hell didn't come all the way the _fuck_ out here to _run away_!"

On the road, the other van screeched to a halt, and the doors flew open. Arthur rushed out along with all of the passengers. "Alfred! Get back here, you git!"

"No!" he shouted. "She's leading us out! When we're so _close_!"

"I've got it handled, old man!"

"The fuck you do, Ginny!"

"Don't you _dare_ call me that!" Red shouted back, her voice quivering just a little.

"Alfred." It wasn't a yell or a growl or an order. Alfred could barely hear the voice, it was so small and far away. It did, however, make him stop.

"Alfred," Ivan repeated. He had put the van in park and come around to stand beside Red. "You know you will not accomplish anything by running off."

Alfred, as much as he hated to admit it, knew Ivan was right, and it embarrassed him to have to be told that as if he were just a stupid child. He brooded as he trudged back through the three-inch snow, and he was standing before his group, which had formed upon the sight of his erratic behavior. He crossed his arms and glowered.

"I'm _not_ turning back," he restated. "Not now."

Red took up a similar stance, and the similarity of their appearances was uncanny. "No. No, Alfred, I'm not letting you go there."

Alfred was exasperated. He refused to accept that two months of physical and mental torment could be endured all for nothing. "Have you forgotten who I am? Who _we_ are? We're nations, and we've come to clean up our shit. And I am your _father_. Like it or not, I know more than you do, and you are still one of _my states._ I won't have my daughter denying me the right to march into those bastards' headquarters and cave all their fucking heads in!"

"I know what you are," Red replied insolently. "And you're not invincible! Do you have _any_ idea what would happen to the world if all of you were killed? I'm a state, not a country, Alfred. I'm not as important. If _I'm_ killed—"

 _"No,"_ Alfred snapped in a way that made Red shut her mouth and stare. "I'm tired of having everyone else try to fix what's _my_ fault. Don't you even _suggest_ sacrificing yourself for my sake. I am your father, and you are my daughter. That's not how it works." Before Red could gather herself enough for a reply, Alfred addressed the rest of them, "I don't know about you guys, but I haven't come this far, haven't gone through so much shit, haven't lost _three good countries_ , just to find a safe place to hide until I'm hunted down and killed. I know we haven't really planned this far and that we've had little information to go off of, but everyone who's a victim of the Organization deserves our help. If I die, I want to take as many of those bastards with me as I can. Red,"—the girl locked eyes with him now, green and wide—"I know you want me safe, but no matter what you do, I'm going. The best you could do is tell us all how you came to be part of them and anything else we might need to bring them down."

Red glanced down, only for a moment ashamed. Then she gathered herself and licked her chapped lips. "Well… you remember that phone call, right?"

* * *

Alfred remembered vividly the desperate call Red had made him to order him to the airport for escape only to be part of the Organization team to surround and infiltrate it. Instead of wasting their precious time pointing this out, he merely nodded in answer.

Red continued, "When I made that call, I had been part of the Organization for a month. Before that, I had been laying low over at Penny's place, though Penny wasn't anywhere to be found. I picked up Jeremy on my way, and Malachi tried to reach me as well as Martin, but we lost contact with them early on (1). We remained hidden for a couple of weeks, sustained by what amenities we had and attention passed over us for the time being. The Organization was forming within the capital, pulling its members from senior officials and common rioters alike. As I've been told by other members, this was when the small group of corrupted politicians joined together to form what is called the Council. No one knows for sure just who is on it, but as far as I know they govern most of the daily activities of the Organization, though the Overlord oversees them. No one knows who he is either, by the way. Never seen him, but we can hear him occasionally during important announcements.

"Anyway, as I was saying, Jeremy and I were holed up pretty good for a while in Penny's cabin in the mountains out west in her state. Had everything we needed, except information on what the hell was going on everywhere else. One day, Jeremy decided that he'd had enough of sitting around and set out to explore what was left of his towns. I went after him and tried to get him to stay put, but… we got into a little argument, and he, um, he left me. He said he was going to get some tinder, but… you know, he never came back. And that was the last I ever saw of him. The damned predictable idiot." Red paused here to clear her throat and wipe at her nose with a gloved hand. "So I was kind of on my own from there on out. I went to Philly, 'cause I thought Penny would be there. I couldn't find her, but I certainly found someone else. _They_ were there, and they were gathering soldiers, weeding out those who opposed their ideas, though they had most of the army on their side at that time. I almost stumbled into them and thought of confronting them, but I knew I wouldn't have a chance of winning. So I wandered, trying my best to avoid them, until I came upon a dead rioter. He had a gas mask on. I took that, cut my hair, and bound my chest. I presented myself to them as a potential recruit to their force, claiming that I was a carrier of some contagious disease and possessed a scarred face I wished not to show to explain the mask. To put them further at ease, I said that I was a sixteen-year-old boy whose family was killed by the Philadelphia police force during a protest. I was accepted at once, and to them I was just another mercenary to do the Overlord's bidding.

"There's this saying within the Organization: _Let the chains of the old world be cast off_. It must be said every morning gathering and every evening gathering. It taints my mouth. The others say it like it's a treat, but it's a slow-acting poison. Everyone I've spoken to, everyone I've ever met within the Organization, has lost all semblance of who they once were. They're all the same. Every day they become more like their masters, brainwashed. I don't know how they were brainwashed, but it happens so fast. I would blink, and they'd be a completely different person. I soon found, after I was taken into their ranks, that I could have no longtime friends. Their minds would all deteriorate before my eyes. But I noticed, and so I remained the same.

"I knew something sinister was going outside of the fact that the Organization was plotting to take over the country. So, I paved my way to the capital by performing exceptionally in my drills and on my missions. I was sent to headquarters with recommendations from my superiors, and I was immediately placed as a squad captain. During my time there, I carried out my duties without suspicion and with enough skill that no one had any reason to suspect me of anything. I used this trust and authority to my advantage. As a captain, I was awarded a position on a panel of other leaders called the Board. They examine potential recruits and assign them their rank and, basically, dictate all military activity. All of those who were assigned to me I caught before the Organization could put them under their control. There are rituals squad captains are supposed to carry out involving a type of mantra that, if repeated enough, will render the speaker practically mindless. We're supposed to make new soldiers repeat this every hour, on the hour, for a week or longer, if they were hard to break. Everyone else did it, but not me. Once I could trust my recruits and it became clear to them that their friends under other captains were no longer themselves, they became determined to topple the Organization. We have conspired, even set up a secret location so far unpenetrable by Organization eyes, and we've all pretended to be under their sway.

"But, be warned, their eyes are _everywhere_ , especially since there are few like my own company who would be more than willing to lie about seeing you. The Organization has extended its influence greatly since taking over all the prominent radio channels, and it's been broadcasting every day. They preach about how the world can come together under one authority, how leaving all the responsibility to the government would prevent conflict between people and put everyone at ease." Red scoffed. "As absurd or impossible as it sounds, the so-called 'Fellowship of Man' has managed to persuade countless numbers of people around the globe. Some countries have already submitted to their power, including Great Britain. As soon as the Germans sided with the FoM, the rest of what used to be the EU followed suit.

"Everything that you've probably heard is true. D.C. is in ruins, and I haven't seen Dillon (2) at all since the Uprising, but he's no doubt having convulsions. Most everything is rubble except for the Washington Monument. That they lied about taking down. That's so no one entering the district suspects it's a watch tower. They've rigged almost the entire perimeter with explosives to provide a plume of smoke so that scouts know where to pick up the pieces of someone who opposed them and gun down the survivors. I know where the scout outposts are and much more, but the longer half of the explaining will have to be done when we're safely in the hideout.

"Now, about the whole Rusty thing. Within the Organization, I am known as such, and, yes, I did head the mission to the airport in Queens. But listen: I only did it to keep my cover. I told you to go there because it was the only airport that I knew to still have fuel, and I was hoping you'd be discreet in getting there, Alfred, but…" She shook her head and sighed. "Well, I only suspected you'd make a racket. Those two guys that saw you escaping your apartment… they reported back and the Overlord ordered an immediate plan of action. I had to go along. It would have been nice if you had left sooner, and I'd been hoping that you had, but that pilot I sent in for you… he killed himself, didn't he?" She gave an exasperated, hollow laugh. "I can't rely on anyone anymore, even if I pay them, but at least you're all right. All of you.

"I could go on forever about all that I've seen and heard, but now it's probably best to be off." Here, she took time to catch her breath and afterward eyed the vans. "More likely than not they'll be looking for vehicles. We'll drive as far as the Potomac and then we'll be rowing the rest of the way."

"Rowing?" Francis parroted regretfully, and Arthur said, "You mean to say that you've procured boats?" Honestly, he'd thought they would all be stolen.

Red laughed a laugh as rough and pitiful as weathered stone. "If you call stealing canoes 'procuring.'"

The sun was painting the sky in delicate pinks and harsh copper hues by the time they had pulled onto a narrow two-lane road framed by a mass of trees whose winter-parched branches wound upward like old beggar's fingers. For a moment, they were sheltered. For a moment, it was as if nothing had ever changed. Just them, with the sky arching above and the sun extending bright tendrils to warm the windows of the vans. Clouds gathered, spilled their contents; winds picked up storms, swept them across the world; the moon rose, lit the night until the morning sunlight chased away its dominion; a new dawn, a new day, wash, rinse, repeat. It was the only thing that any of them were ever absolutely sure of. They were also sure of the fact that it would continue to go on even after they were dead. If they couldn't accomplish what they wanted, at least those they failed would have the sunrise.

Arthur had long given up stressing the importance of communication between them. It was nigh on impossible with all that had happened. One tended to grow silent the more their ability to dictate their life through their voice was chipped away. They were all separate but equal in their brooding and grief. At least Arthur knew that.

All too soon the trees became sparse, and the sheen of sunlight reflecting off the wind-tossed waves of the Potomac came into view between the dark trunks. There was soon a break in the trees, and Red directed them through, down to the whipped water. The sun was fully up by then, hovering just over the horizon. The air was crisp and the wind softer than it had been on the plains, but it carried with it the scent of smoke and dust and blood. Despite being well upstream from the heart of the district, Alfred could clearly see the apex of dome arcs and the tips of spires watching them over the tops of the bare trees—a grave threat from what used to be friendly, familiar sights.

Alfred moved from foot to foot, hugging himself, nose and ears numb and breath a mist before him. He tore his eyes away from the distant sentinels and fixed them on the four battered canoes being hauled into the river, bobbing on the current.

"I'm tired of waiting," he said, sniffing and pulling his coat further up around himself. His coat, that was stained with his blood, his friends' blood… the blood of the man he'd beaten into chopped steak. He walked to the shore and followed Ivan into a canoe without thinking, though the Russian didn't protest. Alfred's legs felt stiff and cramped from sitting in the vans for so long, but they had the function of noodles. One step in, and the canoe bobbed away. Alfred would have fallen into the frigid waters, black with war and blood, if Ivan had not caught his arm and steadied him. Alfred knew the man was looking at him, but he could not meet his gaze. It hurt now more than it ever had to do. So, Alfred cleared his throat, snatched his arm back, and plopped down into the hollow of the canoe, snatching up a paddle to distract himself from the eyes burning into the back of his head.

"Guess we shouldn't drink the water, eh?" Matthew said without much amusement as he joined them, and Alfred was grateful that his sitting in the middle blocked Ivan's view of him. He handed Matthew his paddle after stirring the clotted waters.

"I wouldn't touch it either," Red called over. She had a paddle in hand, pushing off from the melting shoreline. She was alone, as was only expected; strangers, despite their relation, were still instinctively suspected, especially now that they had lost group members to those they thought would aid them. Alfred wished he had gone with her, even so. It seemed only right. Alfred could still feel the heat of Ivan's grip on his forearm. He rubbed the feeling away and sniffed again.

Feliciano didn't like the trees. Their sharp, spindly branches that jabbed at the sky and the piles of snow suffocating the shriveled roots only served to remind him of his brother. Everywhere he looked, he saw the shadow of Lovino's corpse suspended between the trunks, as if in warning. _Falling stars,_ Feliciano thought suddenly as he clutched his coat tighter around him. His eyes fell to his lap, and he tried to focus on the constant _swish_ of Ludwig's paddle slicing through the death-clogged water and the sway of the canoe the shifting of his weight caused, like a cradle. He'd always loved to see falling stars. _Why don't I want to see them now?_ The tightness that gripped his chest as he thought it over was like nothing he had ever felt.

So quiet. That's all Kiku could think. Not the usual quiet most are used to, but an insanely deafening quiet; the loudness of the silence was harsh inside his head, and his eardrums were contracting as if in confusion, as if they didn't know whether to function or not. No birds. No rustle of leaves. As soon as they had stepped into the canoes, it seemed like the wind had been shut off at the flick of a switch, like nature knew what was coming and was checking out of the chaos before it even began. Not even a whisper of air sailed past Kiku's face, and, as much as he would have appreciated that fact while freezing out on the plains, he began to miss that reassuring sensation that at least reminded him he was more than a hollow egg covered by a weak shell carried in the clumsy hands of Fate.

The silence begged to be broken, having been devoid of most cheerful noise for some time. But they were too close to speak. Open your mouth, and you wake the sleeping dragon.

The wind had stopped, yes, but the current was strong. Ludwig could practically feel the form of the river struggling to pull its heavy load of thick, inky sludge and oily slime down to the Chesapeake, where surely nothing lived anymore. It tugged at his paddle, nearly snatching it away from him at one point. It gulped at the sides of their canoes, threatening to swallow, and Ludwig wasn't so sure if he found the idea altogether displeasing.

The sun was beautiful as it hung low in the sky and made its ascent in a graceful, millennial arc. But the river barely noticed. It drank the light up greedily, rendering itself an opaque, writhing mass, escorting them ever so kindly to their horrid destination. Alfred no longer knew this river. He wondered when the other had been chased away.

They arrived at a bend that sent them tilting, and Francis bit his lip as some of the black ooze _schlupp_ ed onto his hand. He wiped it off on his pant leg and waited for it to eat through the weather-worn material to his thigh.

A tune came to mind with the sluggish sway of the river current, the way the paddles swished through the water, the canoes' cargo. Alfred soon began to hum it, recalling the lines and running them through his head as if it were one hundred years ago when he had thought he had already witnessed everything that could be called chaotic. How he never imagined, being so young and stupid and blind, that everything could go so wrong. The nostalgia weighed heavily on the words arriving at the forefront of his mind.

_I've got a mule, her name is Sal_

_Fifteen years on the Erie Canal_

_She's a good old worker and a good old pal_

_Fifteen years on the Erie Canal_

The canoe got too close to the shoreline. Matthew raised a dripping paddle to push off back into the current. The canoe swayed again, almost soothing. Alfred's face was numb with cold and his nose was running badly, but what would have bothered him years before he barely paid mind to now. It seemed stupid to wipe his nose when it would only run again.

_We've hauled some barges in our day_

_Filled with lumber, coal, and hay_

_And every inch of the way we know_

_From Albany to Buffalo_

Was there an Albany anymore? A Buffalo? No, of course not. How stupid to even think. No more barges. Machinery took care of that. No more Albany and Buffalo. The Organization took care of that. Everything had its replacements, just like the river that slurped greedily around the sides of the canoe. All replacements had their downsides.

_Low bridge, everybody down_

_Low bridge 'cause we're coming to a town_

_And you'll always know your neighbor_

_And you'll always know your pal_

_If you've ever navigated on the Erie Canal_

Alfred stopped in his humming to give a loud scoff and shake his head. Matthew glanced over his shoulder but was just as quickly returning to guiding them. _Pals_. Alfred remembered those days. When people were good and stupid and blind and didn't _know_. They just took away the barges. They put that guy and his pal Sal out of work to make their descendents' lives easier. Swords couldn't kill enough people. Too difficult to win wars with those. Add gunpowder, stuff it in a metal tube with a few balls of lead, and you've got more families ruined. Less trouble, though. That was all that mattered in the end, wasn't it?

_Get up there Sal, we've passed that lock,_

_Fifteen years on the Erie Canal_

_And we'll make Rome before six o'clock_

_Fifteen years on the Erie Canal_

And just when you'd think that would be enough to win a war, they make _more_. Shells that blast buildings to smithereens, mines that leave the unfortunate victim a widely strewn mess of blood and guts and body parts you can't even recognize. But at least _those_ left remnants of the victims for families to bury. Well, they just had to take that away, too. Nuclear weapons vaporizing bodies, turning them to nothing and leaving only a shadow behind where they stood. There, you see? Less bodies to clean up. Less mess. Convenient. Just one press of a button, and you've got your own personal murder machine with its own sweeping device built in. There. We won.

_One more trip and back we'll go_

_Through the rain and sleet and snow_

_And every inch of the way we know_

_From Albany to Buffalo_

_Was_ there an Albany and a Buffalo? Or were they just a long, pleasant dream? No. Of course not. They were gone. Ancestors looking for a quick way out gave their children weapons with which to enforce their opinions on society—and Alfred had let it happen, had been so proud. Albany and Buffalo were gone, vaporized, _poof_ , and all that was left were the shadows of humanity. What ancestors _thought_ was humanity. In the end, everyone was just like poor, dumb Sal and her lost job. Alfred bet she kicked a lot when she'd heard she wouldn't be able to pull those barges from Albany to Buffalo anymore.

_Low bridge, everybody down_

_Low bridge for we're coming to a town_

_And you'll always know your neighbor_

_And you'll always know your pal_

_If you've ever navigated the Erie Canal._

Alfred knew his country inside and out; every street and alley; every brick and slap of mortar. But there were no neighbors and there were no pals. They were navigating on a river he didn't recognize to a Rome that appeared more or less the same as the original had at its end. Alfred hadn't seen it yet, but he _knew_. The tops of the buildings got closer and sharper in detail, the damage to them already clear. _Low bridge,_ Alfred thought. _Everybody down. We're coming to a town._

That guy and his pal Sal got _screwed_.

Similar thoughts were plunging through everyone else's minds, ranging from despairing to frustrated to infuriated to vengeful to grief-stricken to maddening. Before the world went up in flames, they would not have been able to hide the evidence of such strong emotions churning within them. Now their faces were blank, and their eyes were empty—the poster boys of a generation they had never meant to create.

Another bend rounded, and they were at the head of an island crowned with naked trees. Theodore Roosevelt Island. Or had it already been renamed?

They bypassed the large island, and Feliciano wanted so much to dig his fingers into the silty shore and scramble up the banks to hide among the brush. It seemed their last chance for safety, the last well before an infinite stretch of desert, and Feliciano wanted so much to stay there and never face his fears. The view of the government buildings were blocked by the island's treeline, and the thoughts of blood and stars and holding up the sky were muffled if only for a few minutes.

Once they cleared the island, all at once their breathing seemed to stop. The rooftops were closer now, their smokey stench detectable on the breeze. "Hey," Red said, her voice like the crack of a whip among the prolonged silence. She motioned to the shoreline—the one that marked the beginning of their hazardous trek to those dreaded buildings.

It seemed like they reached their destination in the blink of an eye, they were so reluctant to leave the river of sludge. Luckily for them, they did not have to set off so soon. They pulled the canoes into hiding in the trees while Red had a smoke.

She was halfway finished when Francis came to stand beside her. No exchange of words was needed. She offered him her pack of Virginia Slims, and he gladly took one.

It had been a month since he'd had a smoke, and Francis gagged a bit on the first few puffs. Red, thankfully, didn't see fit to address it. Instead, she said, "From here on out we have to be wary. The perimeter has been rigged with explosives and alarm trips. I know where some are, but only so many. The Overlord has the sole knowledge of every security precaution as a rule." She was exhaling in a stream of smoke when Alfred walked up to her. Her eyes narrowed insolently, as if daring her father to comment on her habit. Alfred looked from her to the pack in her hand and back again. He snatched it out of her hand and plucked out a cigarette.

"What the hell?" Alfred shrugged and lit up. "Smells like everyone else in the whole place is."

And he smoked, even though he felt like he was suffocating.

* * *

No translations

References:

1-Penny=Pennsylvania, Jeremy=New Jersey, Malachi=Massachusetts, Martin=Maryland.

2-Dillon (Cole)=D.C. (Yes, I know he's not a state. He's a _district_ , but D.C. has enough prominence to be allowed a personification).

A Word From the Writer: Okay, so somehow as I was writing this insanely dreary chapter, I had this bouncy song going through my head from my childhood called, "Low Bridge" by Thomas S. Allen. I decided to include it and twist it so it had a darker meaning, and also to make America come across as kind of insane. I mean, I would be by this point as well if I were in the same position. As for the Organization itself, it seems it's been branching out quite a bit.

Now, about Virginia's character. Her demeanor and appearance lean more toward England than America in most respects, except she may be rash at times and a bit too overbearing like America (not to mention trigger happy). She has curly red hair (though cut short now), green eyes, and eyebrows not quite as bushy as England's but enough to give her a look of perpetual displeasure. She is a tsundere, and I thought it would be good to have her contrast with America in that way. She doesn't like Russia very much or England, despite having once had a relatively good relationship with him in the past (she holds grudges that last forever). But then again she pretty much is indifferent to or doesn't like everyone, seeing as at one time or another she has had to come into conflict with them in the past. She specializes in shipbuilding and microchip manufacturing and she is America's naval center (hehe, that sounds weird...). Considering her history with tobacco, she is a chain smoker. She also has a Tidewater accent. The main reason why I made her an essential part of the coup operation is because 1, she's close to D.C., and 2, I am kind of partial to her seeing as I'm a Virginian (btw, I don't have a Tidewater accent. I didn't even know Virginia had accents till I looked it up, lol).

All righty then. I have a full description of her and a couple of other states... but they're too long to post and would probably be considered junk posts by the mods anyway. But there you go. The more you know...


	94. Infiltration

**This is the _real_ shit.  
**

Warning: Angst, insults, weapons, dangerous situation, gore.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Infiltration**

"You said there were security precautions?" Ivan asked, as he had only tuned into Red's warning at that point in her explanation, having been too busy hauling the canoes up onto the bank to have heard everything she had to say. He was walking beside Red now, had been doing so for the past half hour, the girl pointedly pretending that he did not exist. He remembered hearing much of Red in the past—how much she disliked him, at least.

"Yup," Red replied, not bothering to look at him. She began to point. "Over there are hidden nets, there just a little ways down some pits with all sorts of sharp things inside—"

"Sounds sort of," Ivan began. "Prehistoric."

Red scoffed. "No shit, Einstein, I was joking. We got explosives, what did you expect? A giant boulder?"

Ivan frowned. Alfred hadn't disciplined this one enough, it seemed. "Hmm, then you are compensating for your lack of knowledge about the _type_ of explosives that have been hidden. Da, that seems logical."

Red stopped dead. The river was dark stripe stretching along the foot of the hill behind them. "Mines," she replied, though not with as much bite as Ivan thought she would have. It was barely a whisper.

"Mines?" Ivan repeated. "Is that the extent of your knowledge, then?"

 _"Mines,"_ Red ground out more loudly. "New mines… they just rigged the new mines. Everyone, _stop_!"

At her command, everyone froze and turned to stare at her. All except Feliciano.

"Feli," Ludwig snapped.

"Ve, what?" Feliciano frowned in confusion, still continuing on. "There is nothing here, see? Nothing to be afr—" He set his foot down again, and when he did there was an echoing _click_ , his shoe sinking deeper into the earth in an abrupt shunt. Feliciano flung out his arms, almost stumbling, and Ludwig uttered a string of unintelligible sounds until the Italian could find his footing again. Feliciano blinked at Red with wide, wet eyes. "Ve, I'm sorry…"

"Do not move, Feliciano-kun," Kiku warned. Beside him Ludwig's face was leeched of all color and he appeared like a deer caught in the headlights of a gigantic 18-wheeler. He was so still it was as if he was also standing on a tripped mine.

"Why… it did not go off." Francis stared, eyes wide. He had seen many a man blasted to bits by landmines, but this was only one of a handful of occasions when he was confronted with an activated, but undetonated explosive. It seemed all the more unusual purely because this was _Feliciano_ and not some soldier of his.

"It must be faulty," Arthur concluded. It was really the only logical conclusion, and as much as he knew everyone must know it at the back of their minds, he just had to say it, because not saying it would cause them all unneeded panic.

"Da," Ivan agreed, trying his hardest to work out how the fuck they were going to get around this one. Then he recalled how his miscalculations with Jeanne and her group had gotten both Gilbert and Lovino dead, and he wasn't so sure if he could actually make decisions like that anymore. "Or it may just be slow… his foot might not be in the right spot as well."

"Do not make him anxious!" Yao hissed, as if shouting would trip all the mines in the vicinity as well as the one Feliciano was standing on.

Feliciano whimpered, and tears rolled down his face. He sniffed a little, but he _dare_ not sob. He knew how slight a movement it took to set the weapon off. "Please… help me. I-I don't want to—"

"You won't," Ludwig insisted, finally finding his voice. "Just… hold still, Feli. Don't move. I'm… I'm coming to get you, okay?"

 _"What?"_ Alfred squawked, staggered. But before he could say anymore, Ludwig had taken a cautious step toward Feliciano. They all held their breaths as his foot touched the leaf-strewn ground. When nothing happened, they refilled their strangled lungs.

"You're crazy, man," Alfred snapped, eyes wide. His hands were balled into fists, shaking and white-knuckled. "You're a fucking crazy-ass bastard sonofabitch."

"Shh, shh!" Matthew urged, barely able to speak himself for his quaking. "Let him concentrate."

Ludwig had to admit, the talking had been better compared to all of their eyes trained on his every move. He moved with his arms stretched out, as if balancing on a wire, and every time he set his foot down he winced and braced to be blown to pieces. His mind was screaming at him to stop moving, but his feet kept going until he was standing right in front of Feliciano. As soon as their eyes met, everything stopped. Nothing else mattered outside of Feliciano's safety. He could only see Feliciano's teary eyes, so wide and scared, and that was all Ludwig needed to forget his worries. He extended a hand. "Feli… take my hand. I'm going to get you off of there."

Feliciano stiffened and shook his head, hand curled against his mouth to muffle the sobs that were crawling up his throat. "L-Luddy… no, I'm s-scared."

"You don't have to be," Ludwig told him with a confidence that came from nowhere and was backed by nothing but air. He motioned with his fingers. "Come on."

Feliciano reached out and hesitantly took Ludwig's offered hand with trembling fingers. More tears made trails down Feliciano's face. "Please, be careful."

As soon as Ludwig's leg twitched backward, Alfred drew in a sharp breath and threw up his hands. The sudden movement was so quick that everyone tensed and held their breaths.

"That's it!" Alfred exclaimed with a near hysterical laugh. "We're all dead! Well, it's been a good run—"

"Dad," Red ground out, and Alfred whipped his head around to face her. She hardly ever called him that. The girl's eyes were narrowed, glaring. " _Shut up_."

Ludwig closed his eyes and took a deep breath, holding Feliciano's hand in a vice grip. _I'm not letting go, Feli,_ he thought. _I won't leave you here. You deserve a better fate than this._ "Listen to me, Feli. I'm going to step back now. When I say so, lift your foot and step toward me, all right?"

Feliciano nodded, swallowing. He forgot to breathe as Ludwig took one step back, then two. _Please, please, please…_ He was so focused on his mental chant, that Ludwig had to repeat himself twice before Feliciano heard him. "Now, Feli. Move."

Feliciano's legs locked up, and all the breath went out of him. He went deathly pale, eyes wide and wet, shaking his head imploringly. He held Ludwig's hand like it was all that kept him from plummeting to his death off a skyscraper. "Please," he barely whispered.

Ludwig's heart kicked into overdrive, then. If this didn't work, if he made Feliciano walk to his death…

 _Crunch_.

Everyone jumped as Feliciano's shoe sank down into the fresh snow before him. It was the one that had been on the mine.

Ludwig let out a breath, almost laughing, near hysterical at the possibility of his plan working. "Ja, ja, come on," he urged, tugging on Feliciano's hand just a bit. "Almost there, Feli. Just a little more."

Feliciano sniffed and nodded, forcing back his tears so that he could concentrate. He took a deep breath and began to carefully step off and away from the landmine. When he was a few feet away, Ludwig guiding him along, the German forced him to stop. Once it was through, Ludwig couldn't keep a smile off his face. Hell, he even _laughed_.

"You're off," he said, shocked. "Feli, you did it!" _Finally, he didn't screw up. Thank God._

Feliciano's smile was more beautiful than Ludwig had ever seen. "Si, I did it! Ve~!" He swiped off his beanie, waved it around in his hand a few times—and tossed it.

They all drew a collective breath, and Matthew stretched out his arms, trying desperately to catch the garment. His fingers brushed the knitted fabric, weighed down with water and sweat. _No!_ He felt his heart nearly gave out as it sailed past him, unobstructed.

"Run!" Red shouted before taking off through the woods. Not knowing where the rest of the landmines were nor really thinking at all, the rest raced after her. Ludwig snatched Feliciano by his wrist and yanked him along, swinging him in front of him and giving him a shove forward.

They had barely made it off the hill before there was a deep rumble that shook their feet followed by a deafening blast. The whole hill erupted in flame and smoke, and Feliciano stumbled to his knees when he glanced back.

Ludwig pulled him back up and pushed him forward. "Don't look!" he ordered, though he doubted the Italian could hear him over the recurring explosions behind them.

The ground shook so much that they struggled to keep running. A blast close to them knocked half of them flat onto their stomachs. A great roll of air and heat shoved Francis to the ground and dashed his nose against it. He was so dizzy he barely perceived the hands grabbing at him as he struggled to his feet again, legs shaky and holding his bleeding nose, following the others at a renewed speed.

They could feel the heat licking at their heels, could see clumps of sod flying past them to add to the rumbling earth under their feet. It seemed like they were running for a day when the explosions finally ceased. When they stopped to take in their surroundings, their legs turned to jelly and they all more or less sank to the ground. After the loud blasts of the landmines, their panting seemed nonexistent to their ears.

"Well, that was close," Yao voiced for all of them, his hair mussed and the ends of a few strands burned from their close encounter with the explosives.

"Too close," Red added before standing and brushing herself off. "Someone was bound to have heard that, and after getting news of sighting you guys in Ohio a day past, you can bet the Overlord has ordered staunch security on the perimeter. They'll be here in minutes."

"We need to move, then," Arthur announced before getting to shaky feet. He was still anxious from their ordeal with the landmines, and he wasn't so sure he would be able to follow his own instructions. "Let's go." Then, remembering he didn't know where the fuck they were going in the first place, he turned to Red. "Where to?"

Red motioned with her hand. "There's an entrance to HQ around there somewhere. Come on."

No sooner had to gone a few feet in the indicated direction, however, than they heard voices approaching. They all froze, and Red turned to them, pressing a finger to her lips and motioning for them to get down. They were lying flat on their bellies in a dip in the land where a little creek used to flow, and the Organization scouts were traipsing the detonation site on the hill, weapons at the ready. The explosions, thankfully, had erased most of their footprints (and definitely the snow around them).

"Any sign?" one asked gruffly.

"Not even a toenail," another replied, bemused. "This doesn't make a lick of fucking sense. No one could have avoided that many mines and not gotten their guts blown to bits."

"Maybe it was one of them crazy squirrels again."

"Nah. Squirrels wouldn't leave behind this."

Despite being unable to see them, all the nations on the ground winced. They knew what it was the scouts were examining. Feliciano whimpered.

One of the scouts snorted. "A… what the fuck is that? Looks like a bunch of blue string. Mittens? A hat? What the fuck… someone was here."

"Where'd you think they—?"

There was a sudden blast further away, and all of them stiffened. Ludwig had to clamp a hand around Feliciano's mouth to keep him from screaming.

"What the fuck was that?"

"'Nother mine tripped. Probably whoever owned this hat's strewn all over the place now. Shall we see?"

"Aw man," the scout complained as he followed his companion off. "I _hate_ cleaning up after 'em. Can't we just let the rats eat their guts like last time…?"

Five minutes ticked by before Red deemed it safe enough to roll into a crouch. The others followed suit. "Come on, now. Heads low, though. Wouldn't want to feed those rats."

* * *

Ivan was walking beside Red… again. Before the prospect wouldn't have bothered him, though her company wasn't at all pleasant, but now walking beside her was just downright degrading. He peered down once again at the handcuffs that glinted off his wrists and huffed. He didn't like this plan. Not at all.

"How much farther to the entrance?" he asked, just to get his attention off of the fact that he was restrained and bordering on helpless if a dire situation should arise.

Red's face was hidden behind her gas mask, but Ivan imagined the expression beneath it would be the exact same one he'd seen throughout their short time together—complete indifference. "We're almost there, don't worry. If we go any faster, it'll tip them off that something isn't right. Gotta be casual, remember?"

Ivan shook his head, wishing for the life of him that he hadn't agreed to be put in handcuffs, but he honestly had no choice. He still couldn't believe how it went down.

" _All right," Red said as soon as they had ventured further into the stretch of woods. She motioned for them all to gather around before continuing, "We're close to one of the scout entrances to the Organization's HQ. Now, as you can imagine, we just can't waltz in there and hope to come out not resembling Swiss cheese—" Everyone had winced at the reference, but the sensitivity of her words was lost on her—"so I'll go in first, but I can't go in alone. There are at least a couple of guards posted at every entrance, and they're chosen for their bulk. I mean, I know I took out those three guys in Bethesda before, but I can't have one guy escaping to rat us out. And besides, I could use a gun then. We can't in the tunnels. The gunshot echoes would go pretty damn far, and that would just screw us big time."_

 _Alfred's brow was furrowed and his face scrunched up the way it usually was when he was thinking. "Um, Red… where exactly_ are _the headquarters?"_

 _Red gave him a withering look. "Think, Alfred. Where is the_ one _place a rebel group could prosper without worry of attack in D.C.?"_

_Alfred contemplated this for a moment before his eyes went wide. He appeared shocked, as if wondering how he could have not figured the answer out before. "The sewers." He peered back up at his daughter. "The old, unused portion they just replaced… they're underground."_

_Red nodded. "Exactly. Now, as I was saying, I'll go to throw them off our scent, seeing as I'm a 'member', but I'll need some assistance if this is ever going to work out." She seemed a little uncomfortable, as if embarrassed at the fact that she was requesting help. Ivan supposed that was why she wasn't outright asking._

_When no one volunteered (or rather were peering around at each other to see who the unlucky soul would be), Red clarified, "This will require one of you to be bound in handcuffs and escorted at gunpoint to the tunnel entrance. And when I say these guys are bulky, I mean they're fucking_ shit-brick houses _." She huffed, appearing angry with herself for being unable to do all of this unaided. No doubt the state thought she was good enough to do everything alone. Ivan wondered if she was the product of a miracle mitosis with Alfred._

_He was pondering this thought, amusing himself with it, but a minute must have passed before he realized everyone's eyes were on him. He raised his eyebrows. "Um," was all he could get out…_

… and after that he'd been clapped in a pair of cuffs and led off to the tunnel entrance. If he hadn't lived with his group for two months in a hostile frozen wasteland, Ivan would have called them all pussies. But, seeing as that title would be illogical if given to them after all that had happened and figuring Ivan would choose himself to do the deed in any normal situation anyway, the Russian surmised that it would be best if he just went along with it. Despite knowing that Red had the key to the cuffs and would hand it over to him once they were inside, Ivan still disliked being unable to respond to sudden changes in his environment with the quickness that came with having his limbs unrestrained.

"There." Red's voice made Ivan perk up. He studied the large cylindrical mass of stained and worn concrete thirty or so yards away and wondered why he felt somewhat disappointed. He supposed he had been expecting something grand. He mentally slapped himself. What had he been expecting from an unused sewer? Honestly.

"All right," Red began as her pace picked up. "Almost time to implement the plan. Do you remember what to do?"

Ivan scoffed. "What is there to remember? You toss me the key—"

"Shh!" Red hissed before lowering her voice. "We're too far into Organization territory to be revealing any of our plans. The Overlord has eyes everywhere. If we're lucky, he hasn't spotted us so far."

Ivan frowned. There were few things that gnawed at Ivan's patience more than being shushed, especially by someone as young and inexperienced as Red. He was beginning to regret going along with this. To get his mind off his temper, he began to ponder the oddity of the situation. A young girl in a gas mask disguise ordering around a bigger man in cuffs in order to get past the guards and into HQ…

Ivan's frowned deepened then and he eyed Red sternly. "This… reminds me of something."

"Hm?"

"This wasn't all your _original_ idea, was it?"

Red didn't bothering looking at him (she never really did anyway), and despite her disguise Ivan could hear the smile in her voice. "Ah, still the suspicious one. Go on then, tell me. You were always good at collecting information."

Ivan didn't care for the reference to Cold War espionage, but he supposed that was Red's intention. Besides, it wasn't as if he was the only one at fault. "You took a leaf from old films… I do recall seeing something similar to this situation in, ah… _A New Hope_."

Red shrugged. "So what if I borrowed a bit from Star Wars? Big, dumb guards are big, dumb guards in any scenario. You think they'll have the capacity to figure out what we're reenacting before they're eating their own teeth?"

"That's not what I was meaning."

"What, then?"

"Being in the cuffs means I am the… Wookiee, da?"

"Mhm," she sounded rather smug.

"So that means that you would be Luke in disguise…"

"Yup."

Ivan's eyes narrowed. "I am sensing some discrimination here…"

"What discrimination?" Red asked innocently. They were now almost to the tunnel, so she whispered, "I'm the guy that ends up saving everyone, and you're the freaky primeval creature in the background that can only speak in grunts and growls. Sounds about right, huh?"

Ivan would have liked to retort (or better yet, slap her upside the head like her father had obviously neglected to do when she was younger), but they had arrived at the mouth of the tunnel and he was forced into silence. For all the time they'd spent walking toward it, Ivan hadn't considered it intimidating at all. But now that he got a good look at it, at how the dark half circle extended into complete blackness like the yawning mouth of a sleeping giant, he wasn't so sure if he wanted to end up trapped in there if something were to go wrong. _I'll just have to make sure nothing does,_ he mused as Red slipped her handgun out of its holster at her side and pressed it to Ivan's ribs. He hoped Red didn't have a twitchy finger like her father did, but compared to all the other similarities he'd seen so far, he highly suspected it.

He stumbled a bit as Red shoved him abruptly and said, "I'm not shitting you, fucker. One wrong move, and you'll be dragging your leg all the way to your cell if you don't bleed out first." She snatched Ivan's arm up and tugged him back to her side, and Ivan made a show of weakly staggering to catch his feet. "Really," Red warned in a low voice. "Don't make any sudden moves. I've had too many people try to ambush me to think before I shoot. Just stick to your guy and I'll stick to mine."

 _Great_. Ivan began to wonder if he'd teamed up with a grenade with its pin half pulled, but he figured he'd survived one bullet, so what harm would one more do him?

 _Speaking of which…_ His side wasn't doing as bad as it had been a week ago, but it was still pretty sore. He supposed the reason why he was chosen to go on this mission was because of the fact that he'd been hiding the discomfort for a while. Still, it had hurt when Alfred hadn't immediately jumped at the opportunity to scold him for straining himself. The man had just stood there, and Ivan knew he'd been staring, but when Ivan had looked at him Alfred's eyes were suddenly somewhere else…

 _I'm not falling for that cat and mouse game again. This is the_ last _time—_

He'd been so caught in his thoughts that he didn't notice they had arrived at their destination until he was staring directly at one of the guards. He shook his head. _Stop thinking about him._

Red hadn't been lying about the guards' stature. Both were large, though one was taller and thinner while another was shorter and fatter. They were both wearing what appeared to be some form of military grade glasses, round and dark, almost bug-eyed. The shorter one sported messy pepper hair and a goatee slashed with silver. The other was bald with a brown mustache and as it was… a rather long, curling nosehair. Ivan redirected his stare to it as Red spoke and tried his best not to laugh.

"Hey, look who's turned up," the shorter acknowledged as he lowered his weapon to nod in Red's direction.

"Rusty," the taller observed before frowning. "What are you doing here? Your orders were to scope out Bethesda and report back to Gate 3. This is Gate 11."

"I know how to count, Doyle. Not all of us dropped out of the eighth grade," Red replied smoothly, and Ivan nearly glared in disbelief. They were supposed to catch the guards with their defenses down, not force them to raise some ten feet high!

Doyle took the time to scoff while the bald guard accused, "And you're alone. Where's the rest of your team, _captain_?"

Red didn't miss a beat. "Did you not just hear what went down outside? All that rumbling means that someone tripped some of the defenses, in case you didn't know. We went to Bethesda and found traces that someone had penetrated the outer defensive ring and I tracked him to the woods down by the water." As evidence, she pressed the barrel of her gun further into Ivan's chest and gave him a rough jostle by the back of his coat. Ivan almost forgot to appear nervous at the weapon pointed at him. Had that nosehair gotten longer? "Turns out this guy had friends. I'm bringing him in while my team picks up what's left of them in Maryland."

The two guards exchanged knowing scowls. "Why bother?" the taller asked with a snort. Ivan chewed his tongue to suppress a giggle as that nosehair bounced a little. "Leave 'em there, we have no use for them. Better that the pieces of shit are food for the crows."

Red's tone was impatient and biting. "Sometimes I wonder if either one of you have attended any of the billion defense meetings. 'All remains are to be collected for examination.' Overlord's orders. Now if you're finished playing twenty questions, there's an empty cell waiting to be occupied." She took hold of Ivan's arm (her grip leaving nothing to be desired) and yanked him forward, intending to walk straight in between the two guards. Ivan began to worry. They'd been standing close to the guards before, but now they were practically nose-to-nose with them. How in the world would they not spot Red passing him the key?

The taller man stopped them, and Ivan was unable to breathe. "Forgetting something?" He presented Red with glasses identical to the pair each of the guards was wearing. "Kind of hard to see in the pitch black without these. And you call me a rookie, _captain_."

Red practically snatched the glasses from his thin fingers and gave an overly polite, "Why thank you, _Walton_."

"Gonna have to take that mask off to get them on, eh?" Doyle said with an expectant and wicked smile. "Always wondered what you looked like under there. You a leper or something?"

Walton gave a booming laugh then, and he actually _sucked_ his nosehair into the nostril it was curling from. "That would be quite a title. Captain Leper."

Red laughed along with them, though hers was considerably quieter and involved less snorting. Ivan was so caught up in staring in disbelief at what was going on that he barely felt Red's gun hand twitch and nearly failed to catch the key that was dropped from it. Not that the guards were paying any attention. They were practically sobbing and shitting their pants at once with laughter.

Red's laugh petered off and she gasped a bit as if to catch her breath. "Yeah, man, good one. Y'know, it's a wonder how you were recruited. You're definitely a pair of wiseasses."

Doyle stopped laughing to say rather arrogantly, "Takes a little cleverness to get that title. Probably what's got us by."

Red starting laughing again and leaned in, placing her hand on Doyle's shoulder for support as both the guards were sent into guffaws. "Yeah, well… I never said you were clever." It was then that Ivan realized he could no longer feel the cylindrical poke of Red's gun at his side, and before he could even begin to wonder where it was (or what to do with his now freed hands), there was a sharp _crack_. Doyle screamed, and Red shoved him away so that he fell to his knees. He was holding his bleeding head, and his glasses had fallen half off his face, dangling by his ears. Blood dripped from the butt of Red's gun.

"Sonofabitch!" Walton swore and stumbled away before raising his shotgun. But he was just as soon giving screams of his own as another _crack_ signaled the breaking of his trigger arm. Another twist and the skin parted to reveal snapping tendon, red muscle, and a white shard of bone. Walton didn't even have the capacity to scream as the back of his knee was kicked in and he tumbled to the ground, but not before Ivan snatched the shotgun from his hand, grinning behind the guard.

"Clever, da?" Ivan quipped as he turned the shotgun over in his hands, examining it. "Well polished. If you had more experience with it you would have been able to shoot her before I broke your arm."

"Bas… tard," Walton hissed his from his place curled up on the ground. He was cradling his broken arm, spattered with his own blood.

Bodies hit the floor, and Ivan looked up to see that Doyle had launched himself onto Red's front, sitting on her legs and struggling to snatch up her flailing arms while blinking blood from his eye. Ivan began to move toward her, but Red snapped, "No! You finish off Walton."

Ivan conceded and decided that the guard needed a little punishment before being dispatched. The Russian scowled and kicked the man in his stomach, Walton sobbing and coughing up clots of dark blood. He wanted to say so much to him, curse the man for scum, but the man didn't deserve to be spoken to. Instead, Ivan stooped and pulled the chain that linked his handcuffs over the guard's throat, pressing down until Walton's gurgling and writhing ceased and his eyes bulged, flooding with blood. When he was through, he was alarmed to hear nothing but silence in the tunnel. He glanced over and saw Red pulling a jackknife from Doyle's chest. She wiped it off on the dead guard's shirt before folding it up and putting it back in her pocket. "Grab his ankles," she told him before doing the same with Doyle.

Together they dragged both bodies outside (not without a careful look around to make sure everything was clear) and into the trees where the group was hiding on their stomachs in a dip behind a hill that led up to the water's edge. They helped take the bodies down to the shore, and they used the rope they'd retrieved from the Chicago house (at the sight of it Feliciano broke out in tears, despite the rope never being used for any sort of task before) to hogtie the men and weigh their limbs down with rocks washed up by the river. Ludwig felt like scum rolling the men into the water and watching them bob away on the current before sinking below the surface, but then he recalled Gilbert, his open bleeding head and dead eyes, and he couldn't bring himself to feel sorry. Not anymore.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: So what, I borrowed from Star Wars a bit. Who doesn't like Star Wars (not counting episodes I, II, and III, cause they were utter _crap_ ). And I have nothing against Chewie or Wookies in general. I love Chewie, but I just thought including a little spat between Red and Russia would emphasize the fact that she doesn't like him (or rather doesn't _trust_ him). Nosehairs. I had to make the brutes look stupid somehow, come on. And nosehairs are certainly one of the most eye catching negative aspect of a person's face... aside from uni-brows. Uni-brows annoy the HELL out of me.

So, I've been telling you guys this fic is gradually catching up to me, and that's mostly because I'm reading a ton of lemon or am just generally distracted. For example, just this past week I've managed to come down with a case of Bell's Palsy. I don't know what happened, but sometime during the beginning of the week, my immune system checked out and let some virus in that froze the nerves (in the muscles) in the left side of my face. So, as it happens, I am now unable to blink my left eye. I got this whole cyclops thing going on where one eye blinks while the other just twitches (basically like I'm winking, but creepier because it never stops). It's annoying as hell and very distracting, seeing as my left eye dries out and I have to stop every once in a while to manually blink it (yes, take my finger and pull my eyelid down so my eye stops stinging). I also have to wear an eye patch when I'm sleeping so that my eye doesn't dry out. And just recently (as if it couldn't get any worse), it feels like the left part of my jaw has been suckerpunched and my smile is off kilter. It's a good thing I went in to the doctor's today and got some meds before one side of my face started drooping altogether. Lol, so much has happened this year with my health it's not even funny. I found out I've got some degeneration disease in my neck from whiplash when I was younger that causes arthritis (yes, I already have it), and my whole skeleton is skewed slightly to one side, meaning that my jaw is out of place and usually pops when I'm eating or opening it, my spine is curved to one side, and my hips are crooked. I'm just one big walking asymmetrical mess. If only Death the Kid could see me, oh, his face...

Anyway, Bell's Palsy is something doctors don't really understand (lol, yay) and it will go away in 10-14 days. But I don't know how the steroids prescribed to me will effect my mood, and hopefully I won't be perpetually reading lemon and not writing for the whole period I have this thing. In the meantime, I'll just have to go on blinking one eye... and presenting a project for school. Oy, this is already a fail week. And how many times do people get Bell's Palsy in their lifetimes? Anyone? Just me? Figures...

Apart from my shitty luck, more chapters next week!


	95. Under the Underground

**They're goin' in.  
**

Warning: Angst, weapons, OCs.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Under the Underground**

They sneaked to the mouth of the tunnel in pairs, eyes peeled for any scouts that might be on watch nearby. Eventually, they all made it to the tunnel without trouble, and they promptly overturned their canteens to wash away the evidence of the guards' deaths left on the floor. It wasn't a perfect job, but it would give them some time.

The guards were right—the tunnel was so black they barely had to travel down it for a minute before they could no longer see their own hands in front of their faces. They had stolen the night-vision glasses from the guards before sinking them and Red had the pair they had given her before they had been killed, but they could locate no more. It was decided that Red, being their guide, would keep hers and that two others most capable of defense would take the other two. Ludwig tried to volunteer, but he was excluded on part of his grief. Ivan had done enough for that day as it was. Alfred and Yao received the glasses, and they were placed at intervals among a line of blind companions headed by Red, one hand on the person in front of them, the other on their weapons. They resembled one huge, bumbling millipede.

But they didn't nearly move as gracefully as one. Despite three of them having night-vision and two more or less guiding those in front of them, there was plenty of tripping, stumbling, hitting walls, and treading of other's heels. At one point Matthew was so on edge from every drip or echo in the tunnel that he stepped on Arthur's shoe and took it clean off. He was muttering a frantic string of 'sorry's while the whole chain was forced to stop and wait for the Briton to get his shoe back on (which was no easy feat with his burned hands) when the sound of heels clicking off the floor a little further away made them all stiffen and go flat against the curved wall.

"Replacements," Red hissed and the message went down the line. "Kill them. No guns. Don't let them get away."

With that, their hands went to their knives (or in Kiku's case his katana) or just balled into fists at the ready. As the people got closer, they began to hear voices. There were only two. It wouldn't be hard to subdue them.

The pair came into view (well, to those who had night-vision) and stopped suddenly. Everyone tensed, legs poised to lunge. Then a whisper was carried down the tunnel to reach their ears. "What bird flies?"

"The eagle and its brood," Red whispered back.

At this, the two figures regarded them for a few more tense moments before they turned and walked back down the tunnel.

"What was that all about?" Alfred asked.

When the message reached Red, the girl replied, "Code. Those two are part of my squad. They'll deter anyone coming up the tunnel until we get to our destination."

"Where's that?"

"You'll see."

They picked up their pace and, having grown used to the dark and the movements of those in front of them, made considerably quicker progress than before. So far, no one had managed to slip off the raised platform they were traveling on, one of two to either side of a channel whose former job was to guide waste through the tunnel, but Francis came close. Even pressed against the dank walls of concrete that curved around them which had been devoid of sewage for nigh on a year wasn't without certain foul smells. The Frenchman would relive that moment of 'almost' in his nightmares, he was sure.

They'd been walking for fifteen minutes in pure blackness before they saw any kind of light. If Arthur was any normal person who'd decided on a whim (or under orders) to search the tunnel, he would definitely have given up far before fifteen minutes. Having any kind of lighting near the beginning of the tunnel would have been a big tip-off to what activities might be going on down below the district. So, this Organization wasn't completely unintelligent.

Lights began to appear along the wall, powered by a wire that continued like a gray snake twisting down the tunnel. It took them all a minute to figure out they no longer needed to hold onto each other and for Alfred and Yao to take their night-vision glasses off. Alfred's own were folded on the collar of his jacket, the frames bent and lenses scratched severely.

"Um… what now?" he asked. They were at a crossroads. The tunnel continued straight down, connected by a bridge over the channel below, and there were two smaller ones leading off to the left and right. They could hear voices, though faint, but it was hard to tell where they were coming from with all the echoes mingling at the joining of the tunnels.

It didn't take Red long. "This way." And she took off to the left, the others following.

They ran for another five minutes, the voices growing louder the more they ran. Feliciano started to get nervous, if he wasn't already. He chewed his lip for a while before saying, "Ve… um, when are we…?"

"Stop," Red said, cutting the Italian off, throwing out her arm. The movement was so sudden that Alfred nearly ran into the outstretched limb. Red pointed to the wall, and grabbed the handle to a door they all hadn't noticed was there in their angst. She turned it and quietly pulled it open, motioning for them all to go inside while keeping watch for unwanted eyes.

It was a maintenance room, and a cramped one at that. They all just barely stuffed themselves inside before Red stepped in (more like wriggled in) and shut the door.

"Ugh… uh, there should be a… erg, a-a table somewhere."

"Um, ja…"

"Reach under it and feel for a button in the top right corner."

Ludwig did so, though he had to stretch himself far (and he was pretty certain he'd given Matthew an unintentional view of his ass). "Does it… um, feel like a piece of gum?" _Please don't say no…_ Like he needed anymore on his plate at this point.

"Yup, that would be the one."

He pushed it and there was a sudden clicking sound from a few feet away.

"Whoa, what the hell was that?" Arthur was looking down at his feet and wondering whether he should move or not. "Something moved under the floor…"

"That would be the lock," Red confirmed before shoving her way to Arthur and saying, "Now, none of you move." She tapped the floor with the toe of her shoe and the Briton raised his eyebrows at the familiar rhythm.

"'The Farmer in the Dell'?"

Red shrugged. "Kinda sapped of creativity, if you can imagine." Finishing up, she nudged him a bit. "You might wanna step back."

There wasn't room to step much of anywhere in any direction, but Arthur managed to wedge himself between Kiku and Francis (the latter not minding very much at all). Not a second later, and the sound of a latch turning just below them met their ears. They began to see distinctive lines trace themselves into the concrete floor, growing longer until they perceived a door opening at their feet. Francis leaned in to examine further, nearly knocking Arthur off his feet and down into the opening. The Briton was forced to grab onto Francis's shirt, steadying himself with a relieved huff only to see Francis leering like his typical froggy self. Arthur gave a derisive snort despite his face having broken out into a bloom of red.

"All right, jump in," Red told them, and they all peered down into the dark hole with apprehension. Ivan hadn't liked being in the regular sewer tunnel, but going into a _smaller_ tunnel…

"You first amour~" Francis muttered before shoving Arthur in.

The Briton scrabbled and very nearly twisted himself in a way that had his limbs seriously compromised as he fell. But he managed to somehow land on his feet, albeit a bit ungracefully. He cleared his throat and brushed off his jacket, even though it was already stained and mutilated beyond all measure. He glared up at Francis from his place about three feet down. "How courteous of you, frog. Now get your arse down here so I can kick it over your head."

Francis laughed but when he caught the unwavering expression on Arthur's face he smiled meekly and said, "Uh, maybe someone else, oui?" And he offered up Kiku.

Everyone made it through the door more or less without difficulty, though Ivan's wince wasn't altogether inconspicuous and neither was the hand that immediately flew to his injured side shortly after landing.

Once everyone was gathered (and Arthur had tugged Francis's ear a few good times), Red turned and addressed the empty tunnel. "Okay, guys, it's just me and a few friends."

A switch must have been flipped, because the whole tunnel lit up. It was narrow and riddled with doors in the straight-edged walls, overall completely different from what they had seen running through the unused sewers. But that wasn't what concerned them most. It was the multiple figures lighting up under the fluorescent glow, spaced evenly all the way down the hall. The closest to them, a rather tall black man with cornrows, lowered his muscled arms to disarm his pistol with a _click_.

"Goddamn," he huffed, shaking his head. "Thought them Organization loons finally figured us out." He gave a smile then, his teeth remarkably white. "I hate that fucking door, man."

"Couldn't afford to circle around to get to the other one," Red replied, walking down the hall with obvious relief. "Any word from above, Evans?"

"Try below," Evans said, eyes studying every inch of the newcomers that had hesitated to follow Red further into the hall. "As in who the fuck are these guys?"

"The brood."

Evans wrinkled his nose, not once taking his eyes off the strangers. "Brood?"

"Yeah, Mission Gather the Flock. It's done. I got 'em."

Evans squinted in confusion for a few moments before his eyes widened, as if he now only just recognized them. "The mission… _oh_. Well, shit, it's been so long I damn near forgot." He 'hmm'ed as he continued to study the nine nations standing before him. "So… you got _everyone_?"

"Yup," came Red's muffled reply from around a corner, lips popping on the 'p.'

"Where's your dad, then?"

"Right in front of you."

"Huh?" Evans' face scrunched up. "What? I don't see no old man in here, c'mon."

"He isn't old," Red told him. "What, did you think I was lying about the whole state-and-nation personification thing? He's barely four-hundred years old. That's young compared to most nations. Go for one of the younger ones."

"Hmm… you mean the dumb-looking jock with the glasses?"

"That would be him."

"Hey, fuck you, man!" Alfred glared and appeared as if he'd like to drive his fist into Evan's jaw. He quite honestly had lost all semblance of patience by now.

"Oh, yeah," Evans laughed. "He's it, all right. And who would all the rest of you be?"

"Evans," Red scolded. "It's rude to question guests at the doorstep. Bring them in and then we can talk."

"Sure thing, Red."

They were led by Evans down the hall, uneasy at all the staring eyes they walked past. They filed into the room at the back and stood there awkwardly. It was a small, cramped room, much like the room they'd been in above. There was a wobbly table and two worn chairs, one of which was already occupied by an unmasked Red. Somehow the rest of her squad had managed to squeeze themselves into the tight space while the state lit up.

Evans shook his head and fanned at the smoke that was billowing toward him. "Ever consider the fact that we might all suffocate one time when you smoke in here?"

Red rolled her eyes and exhaled another stream deliberately in Evan's direction. "Can it. I've had a long day. You don't know how difficult it is to move these guys without making enough noise to outdo a herd of wildebeest."

"Well, that's your problem…" Evans grumbled before another man, this one black-haired with a wiry build, said, "So, that was the cause of all those mines blowing up. For a second I thought we were being invaded."

Red snorted and smoke curled out of her nostrils. "Yeah, right. Like the Overlord wouldn't know about that."

"So he doesn't know about this?" the man continued to press.

Red tapped her ashes into the tray on the table. "I didn't say that. I'm certain the Overlord knows about whatever happens within the borders of the district. Getting these guys in is no exception. Our best bet is to continue on like before and hope the Overlord doesn't find out about this bunker or their identities."

"And who would 'these guys' be?" Evans snarked.

Red took another drag and fiddled with the strap of her gas mask. "Go on, then. Introduce yourselves. I trained my squad not to bite."

"Well," Alfred began. "Guess everyone already knows who I am, but… yeah, we're the real deal, no joke."

"Oh, _really_?" A man with messy brown hair and a wisp of a mustache (it appeared as if he had been trying to grow one for some time) shouldered his way to Alfred, arms crossed, and continued, "All right, how about this? In 1804 Aaron Burr and Alexander Hamilton participated in an illegal duel. They both shot at each other, who won? (1)"

Alfred gave him an exasperated look. "Um… you got a better question?"

The man reddened but persisted, "Just answer it."

"It's a trick question."

"No, it's not. You just have to say—"

"For one thing, it wasn't illegal," Alfred cut him off, patience wearing. "The whole reason they trekked all the way to Jersey was because duels were not yet _outlawed_ there, but they were in New York, which is where they originally came from. And they _both_ didn't shoot at each other, only Burr shot at Hamilton. Hamilton thought they shared the same mindset that they'd both proven themselves honorable enough to arrive at the site and so didn't have to go through with the duel. So he deliberately missed and shot over Burr's head. A mistake on Hamilton's part, seeing how Burr shot him anyway, but what can ya do?"

The man's face fell a little, but the arrogance was still there. "You didn't answer the question."

"Uh, I _can't_ ," Alfred stressed as if he was talking to a child, which seemed completely comical to Arthur. "It wasn't a proper duel. One opponent didn't commit himself to it, so, technically speaking, _nobody_ won."

The man blinked at him for a few moments, not knowing what to make of him. Then he broke out in a smile. "All right, all right, I'm convinced. I mean, you look fresh out of HS, and everyone in my uni honors class failed that one on the first shot."

Arthur cleared his throat. "Moving _on_ , I'm—"

"England," Evans finished.

Arthur frowned. "Er—"

"Red rants about you a lot," Evan's answered. "And you sound kinda snooty."

Arthur looked scandalized. "I beg your pard—"

"Oh, don't mind him. He is such a tightass sometimes," Francis interrupted, throwing Arthur an 'I would know' smirk that the Briton scoffed at. "I am France."

"We know," everyone said at once.

Before Francis could ask, Evans said, "Rants about you a lot, too."

Ivan opened his mouth, but he barely got a word out before he was identified as well. It was the same with Yao and practically everyone until they reached Matthew.

"Um…" Evans trailed off. "Don't think I've ever heard talk of you before, man."

Matthew frowned and gave them all a hopeless look. "I'm Canada." When they all continued to stand and stare in confusion, he elaborated, "Above America? Second biggest country in the world?"

"Ah—oh yeah!" Evans nodded in recognition, and Matthew perked up. "Got a cousin up there. Went for the pot. Says it's a nice place whenever he can get to a phone."

Matthew sighed and facepalmed. "Why do I even try…?"

"Um." Alfred buffeted the smoke away with his hand, eyes watering and hacking excessively (perhaps melodramatically). "Ya wanna put that thing out… sweetie?"

Red fixed him with a displeased glare and stubbed out her smoke. "All right, that took longer than I thought it would—"

Arthur's brows came together. "Er, I'm not entirely sure that's a logical state—"

"— _so_ ," Red continued, glaring. "I'm just gonna skim over names here. You already know who I am, and if I hear one comment on virginity I'll make sure the rest of your life is devoted to it." She stared pointedly at Francis, who quickly gave a meek smile while inconspicuously trailing a hand down to shield his crotch from eyes that meant to vaporize it. "Aside from myself, you got Andre Evans, Shawn Blalock"—the young college grad raised a hand in an amiable wave, his shaggy hair falling over his eyes a bit—"and Bernard Cruz," the black-haired man nodded to them respectably. "Danny Moss and Todd Karkas _would_ be here, but it seems they've gone out drinking." She looked pointedly at Evans.

The man scratched the back of his neck apologetically. "Yeah, well, they never listen to me anyway."

Red rolled her eyes and huffed. "Twenty-four hour lockout sufficient enough, you think?"

"You could cut holes in their uniforms."

"Hm, good idea." Then she added with a smile, "Learn from experience?"

Evans gave a scoff like it didn't bother him, but he still muttered, "Not like I deserved it anyway. Just a few beers…"

"So!" Red exclaimed, standing and swinging her gas mask by the tips of her fingers. "I could tell you our plans for the coup now, but I don't think you would appreciate it after all the hell you've been through. Or so I've heard. And we couldn't have old Moss and Karkas missing out on a briefing that is no doubt well-needed on their parts…" She shook her head and silently brooded for a moment before shrugging and saying, "Welp, get settled in, then. There's enough room for all of you, though I can't say the same for the beds. Got about two rooms you can all share, plus a shower and bath if you need one."

"Bath?" Yao said aloud without realizing it. He reddened a bit as several pairs of eyes fell on him.

Red cocked her head to one side, shoulders going up again. "For stress," she answered simply before heading down the hall. The sound of a door shutting further down announced her official departure.

* * *

No translations

References:

1\. Wow, it's been a long time since I did one of these. So, the story is pretty straightforward and mostly explained in the reading, but I'll just include some extra stuff for good measure. Alexander Hamilton is a pretty prominent figure in American history, and since back then him and a handful of other important politicians held multiple positions in the government, I would suggest looking him up because he has too many titles for me to write about (though he is commonly referred to as the founder of the long-dead Federalist Party). Anyway, Aaron Burr (third vp of the U.S. at the time) and Hamilton didn't like each other very much for various political and social reasons, and shit reached a head when Hamilton insulted Burr during his electoral campaign. After the duel, Hamilton was rowed back to NY where he had just enough time to say goodbye to his wife before he died. Burr was charged with murder in both NY and NJ. He fled to SC and all charges were eventually dropped against him, still retaining his position as vp. Ah, men. Their methods in problem solving have never changed.

A Word From the Writer: Whoop, whoop, more OCs! All right, I'll list their appearances with their names for reference:

Andre Evans: Red's 'lieutenant.' Black, cornrows, well built, responsible, level-headed, experienced.

Shawn Blalock: Messy brown hair (he coined the term 'rat's nest'), wispy mustache (like a smudge of dirt on his upper lip, really), lean, typical college kid, easy going, easy to talk to, follows orders well (has learned to, at least).

Bernard Cruz: Latino, with short black hair and wiry build, agile, secretive, withdrawn, overly serious at times.

Todd Karkas and Danny Moss will be described later, but they're kind of like the insufferable troublemakers whose skills are needed too much to get rid of.

Lol, I suck at pulling names out of my ass. Normally coming up with new OCs consists of me breaking out my yearbooks and flipping through them until I combine a first and last name from two different people that sounds good. My methods are mundane, but the results aren't bad. I just don't feel like thinking all that much when I can just pick some at random from a book above my desk. Have I mentioned that I'm lazy?

Anyone get the irony in Karkas's name? Anyone? ... I'm a horrible person. XD

Btw, just in case no one got Red's reference to virginity, it's an allusion to her state name.

Onward!


	96. Almost

**Just... buying time at this point, really.  
**

Warning: Angst, tension, innuendo, RusAme (somewhat).

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Almost**

Deciding who would stay in each of the two rooms they were offered was, thankfully, one of the easiest tasks they had been confronted with thus far. None of them possessed the strength or patience to debate, and so they simply walked into a room, dropped their belongings, and went about settling in. The last couple of months had taught them how to cooperate more so than any other time in their histories. Yao, Kiku, Feliciano, and Ludwig took one room, while Arthur, Francis, Alfred, Matthew, and Ivan took the other—a setup they had become used to after their journey in the vans.

Alfred had already dropped his stuff in a far corner of the room when he heard the sound of a bag dropping behind him, and he glanced over to see Ivan busying himself with his sleeping bag. Although displeased at his presence (and at that so close to his space in general), Ivan's eyes dared Alfred to challenge his position, just like he had done so many times in the past in similar and contrasting situations. Alfred met his gaze levelly and promptly went back to his own arrangements… also as he would have done in any other experience.

Mentally, he scoffed. _Yeah, go right ahead, asshole. I know your game. I won't be chased away. You can't intimidate me, not after I've seen_ —Alfred stopped himself right there, refusing to acknowledge that his mind kept going back to that night when Ivan had seemed most vulnerable, how he had been courteous enough not to address the fact that the Russian had been—

 _Acting like a child,_ Alfred concluded as he pulled his sleeping bag down with a crisp _snap_ (technically not his but Lovino's, which he had to admit was kind of creepy but necessary). _Crying like a child. He's always been a child, stuck in that time before everything in his life went wrong…_ Alfred smoothed out the ruffles and shook his head. He refused to let himself feel sorry for Ivan. Why should he when the man had made him feel like shit? Why should he…

It wasn't until he felt Ivan's eyes on him that he realized his own fingers had gone to his lips, recalling that moment of _almost_ that took place between them not but a night ago. Alfred saw Ivan looking and quickly took his fingers away from his lips, clearing his throat to hide his embarrassment as Ivan pretended not to notice. _Almost._ But not enough.

Alfred gathered some spare clothing he'd managed to stuff in his pack before the Uprising began (wow, he had been so naïve then… a wife-beater, jeans, and shin socks, really?) and asked aloud if anyone would be taking the shower. Everyone said they would go after him, some claiming they were a bit too tired to commit to the effort of bathing, but he did catch the concerned look in their eyes. He was no fool, contrary to popular opinion. At least it was obvious when mostly _everyone_ was giving him the same look. He knew what it was about, and, as much as he was embarrassed to think back to when he had to be cared for by Ivan because of his injuries caused by the crash, he refused to let it worry him or present itself as obvious on his face. He'd gotten a black eye (which he could see out of now, but the skin around it was still a dark red and purple) and hit his head, sure, but if anything said about his hardheadedness proved true he would be perfectly fine in a week or so. Now if they even _had_ a week, well… that was another thing to worry about.

He wasted no time heading off to the shower, which was, fortunately, just across the hall. He gave a short wave to Shawn and Bernard on his way, who were playing at a game of Spades at the small table down the hall.

A fresh stack of towels obviously filched from surrounding homes and businesses filled a small shelf in the room that was little bigger than the average walk-in closet, which wasn't a problem for him. Really, the only thing that mattered was the shower working and the water temperature (hot, preferably).

The shower stood alone at the back; a stained head jutting out over the same cold concrete that made up the entire bathroom floor, with a no-slip mat beneath sporting a hole cut out (none too precisely) to expose the drain. The 'tub' was no more than an old-fashioned aluminum one pushed up against a side wall with a hose from the shower leading to it. The toilet and sink must have been in another room.

Alfred wasted no time stripping down and turning the knobs. The water came out scalding at first, but Alfred adjusted it (just barely) and stepped in, sighing and feeling his skin (which was much too used to the cold) tingle as it was lashed with hot water for the first time in two months.

The soap bottles were label-less and filled with stuff that didn't have a particularly pleasant smell (kind of hard to find good soap at the end of the world, after all), but Alfred was just glad he could finally rid himself of the all the grease that had been gradually building up on his body. The more he washed himself, the more he was amazed at how startlingly white his skin was. Had it always been that light? The filth swirling down the drain could attest for that.

Ivan, meanwhile, had finished his unpacking and slipped out of the room to explore the bunker. It certainly wasn't spacious, but then again the lodgings were meant to be temporary. The walls were cold and felt thick and sturdy, but it was old. Judging by the copious water stains, grime, and cobwebs, Ivan guessed its origins dated back to… well, when people thought they needed them most, really. Ivan scoffed as he saw a crack winding its way up from a corner. Yeah, as if this thing could even come close to withstanding the might of Tsar Bomba or the like.

All the rooms appeared the same: a few cots, a bare bulb hanging from the center of the ceiling, and evidence of human habitation. Quite boring, but it was only expected. He was on his way back to his room when he passed by the shower room. He backed up and listened to the water running for a minute. He was sure Alfred would be finished by now (but, honestly, what had he been expecting?) and had been buying time until he was out, clothes at the ready, to have his turn. But all of a sudden he didn't want Alfred to hurry.

He bit his lip to hide a leer as he pushed the door open. Oh. He clicked his tongue. Alfred hadn't locked the door—how negligent.

Ivan had no trouble slipping in without a sound, and he was pleased to find that Alfred (a very _naked_ and _wet_ Alfred) had his eyes closed under the spray. Ivan observed him for a moment, just standing there with his back to the door, and concluded that Alfred appeared good enough to eat.

Too bad it couldn't last. Alfred opened his eyes soon enough, possibly to determine the source of the sudden gust of cold air (since the shower had no curtain whatsoever, which Ivan found extremely convenient on his part), and he jumped at the sight of Ivan standing there watching him.

"Holy shit!" he shouted before propelling himself back against the far concrete wall and immediately yelping and jumping back from it for its chill. As it figured, his foot slipped on the no-slip mat (which now that he noticed seemed to be rather worn) and he glided across the floor a couple of inches before he threw out his hands and was able to stop himself. At that point, he realized that he was kind of spread out for Ivan's view, and he quickly covered himself. "What the hell, man? Couldn't you hear, like, the water running or something?"

Ivan lowered his quirked eyebrow, which had been raised for the entirety of Alfred's ridiculous display, and shrugged. "You have been in for long enough, da? I figured you would be finished by now."

Not knowing quite how to answer that, Alfred's hand shot out for the knobs (while his other hid his own knob, so to speak). But Ivan quickly interjected, "There is no need. I will be getting in, so keep it running."

Alfred snatched his hand back, scolding himself for acting like a kid who'd been caught trying to touch something valuable in a china shop. Why the hell was he listening to Ivan anyway? Although it did make perfect sense to leave the water on, he brooded nonetheless. Ivan turned away for a moment to examine the tub, and meanwhile Alfred made haste to snag a towel from the tall stack on the shelf beside him and wrap it around his torso. But as it was, his hands were shaky ( _why_ , dammit?) and by the time Ivan turned back he was forced to clutch the towel to his crotch rather stupidly.

Ivan rolled his eyes. "I do not understand why you feel the need to hide yourself when I have seen plenty of your body unclothed over the years to profile you exactly upon request."

Alfred cleared his throat and took the time to properly tie the towel around his waist. It worked, thank God. " _Request_?"

Ivan gave a hopeless sigh. "Da, I made money selling ideas based on your sex organs to erotic toy manufacturers."

"W-w- _what_?"

Alfred received a withering expression that clearly told him of the sarcastic nature of Ivan's comment, and he blushed a little from not picking it up earlier. "Oh, um… you were joking. Can't see why I might have been initially confused. You've always been a pretty funny guy. Don't know why we never got along," Alfred added dryly as he stepped out of the running shower to shuffle through his clothes.

Ivan snorted. "You may be able to attribute that to your endless case of obliviousness."

Ouch. Well, two could play at that game. "Yeah, who wouldn't wanna hang out with a guy that keeps a steel pipe in their—um, I-Ivan, what are you doing?"

The man in question had discarded his heavy coat and was in the middle of pulling off the shirt beneath it. "Что? Traditionally, showers are taken _without_ clothes on, Alfred."

Alfred would be lying if he said hearing Ivan say his name again wasn't a little bit of a turn-on—which was kind of a problem, seeing as Alfred was free-balling it in the most extreme sense of the term. "But… I haven't exactly left yet."

"Alfred," Ivan said again ( _Fuck, stop saying that!_ ), as if he were speaking to a child. "I have seen you naked, you have seen me naked, besides we are both men. What I have is also what you have."

 _Oh, I_ definitely _don't have what you have,_ Alfred would have said if the situation was different between them and less… tense. Ivan stared at him for a few moments, eyebrows raised, before Alfred realized he'd said the words aloud.

It was a good thing Ivan was busy laughing or else he would have witnessed Alfred turning twenty different shades of red. "Hahaha, well, I'm Russia. It kind of came with the title. Not to say I don't like it but… it is a pain whenever I have to go through airport security."

And that just made Alfred double over laughing. Because imagining Ivan strolling through an airport with a gigantic tent in his pants was something he had never considered before. "O-oh my God, their faces!"

Ivan found himself laughing along as well, despite the fact that it wasn't just a joke. "S-sometimes they told me to take whatever it was out and put it in a tray to run through a scanner. Then I would ask, 'W-which, the equipment or the ammo?' and they would just stare!"

Alfred calmed down and wiped the tears from his eyes, catching his breath. His chest hurt, and he supposed it was because it'd been a while since he'd last laughed. "Fuck, I love messing with those guys…" It was then that Alfred realized that his hand was on Ivan's shoulder, that he had long dropped his towel, and that Ivan had abruptly stopped laughing.

And, for the first time in the past few hours, their eyes met. Alfred's lips tingled in remembrance, and they were standing so close. It had been so long since Alfred had truly examined Ivan's eyes. He always thought of them as just a weird, inhuman sort of violet. But now that he looked closer he could see specks of blue and silver. He also wasn't oblivious (ironically) to the fact that he was slowly being drawn in by them…

Alfred tore his eyes away and gave Ivan a few pats to the shoulder. "Um, well, the shower's still running, and I'm sure Artie would be pissed if we didn't save him any hot water, so I'll just leave you to it."

It barely took Alfred half a minute to get dressed, avoiding looking at Ivan directly for fear he might just give in, because he couldn't. Not now. He couldn't stand to be like Matthew or Lovino.

Ivan watched but did not make a sound. _Playing,_ he thought sadly. _Everything's just a game to you, isn't it?_ He watched Alfred dress, watched him walk across the room, towel balanced on his shoulder and damp hair sending beads of water streaming down the back of his neck, saw him walk away. And, like all those other times Alfred had done the same thing, Ivan had a wry smile on his face upon his departure.

_I hate you more than anything, you ignorant pig._

_But I know I'll keep chasing you anyway, the masochistic idiot that I am._

* * *

Translations:

 _Что?_ -What?

A Word From the Writer: Wow, this is really short, haha. But no joke, the next couple of chapters that will be posted next week are all that's left in my stock of "I've got time to write this thing, yeah" so I'm slowing it down. To deflect from the fact that I'm a lazy fuck, I'll just say that shorter chapters=more suspense.

Anyway, yes, RusAme is still just barely alive... and awkward. Russia is back to creeping and America is back to being his usual, stubborn self, albeit they're both in a bit of denial, one more so than the other (it's America). Thought you were going to be witness to some hot, apocalyptic RusAme shower sex? Well, it's a good thing I hide behind my computer. XD

More suspense next time and maybe a little surprise!


	97. Gnaw

**Aw, look. It's a _wittle_ chappie. X3  
**

Warning: Angst, mentions of death, sad stuff, mention of OCs.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Gnaw**

As soon as Alfred was out of the bathroom, he leaned against the wall in the hallway and shook his head. He wanted to go back in, say he forgot something or whatever it took to have an excuse to be close to Ivan again.

 _Stop,_ Alfred told himself. _You're such a moron. He's just looking for a fuck, why do you think he came in while you were showering?_

Ignoring the little voice in the back of his mind that insisted Alfred's thoughts were not true, he decided to search for his daughter. Talking to her, at least, would give him a reason to be away from Ivan for a while. It took some time, but he eventually found Red sitting alone in a back room on her cot. As soon as he opened the door, she said, "Well, don't knock, come on in. I'm not getting dressed or sleeping or anything."

"Sorry," Alfred said meekly before closing the door behind him and walking across the room. "Um… I just wanted to check and see how you were doing."

"Sounds like I should be checking on _you_." She turned a page in the book she was reading.

"I'm fine."

"Right." Red set the book down, knowing she wouldn't be able to concentrate on the text with Alfred talking. "There's another reason why you're here. Spill."

Alfred hadn't come to Red with the intention of bringing up the subject, but it floated as a constant presence in the back of his mind nonetheless. He decided sitting down would be the best position in which to deliver the news. He walked over to the cot and took a seat, not remembering the last time he'd sat at the end of Red's bed. Wanting to suspend the conversation he meant to have, he examined the book she had set down.

" _Animal Farm_?"

"Yup."

"Isn't that kind of… depressing with all the other shit going on?"

"Not entirely," Red informed. "It's entertaining to connect the dots with reality, as horrible as it is. Besides, this copy here is one of a kind. I hear all the others have been burned. Everything's burned, really. They say that's what fuels the Organization's furnaces. Thought I'd just take the initiative and commit it to memory, though the pattern of totalitarianism isn't all that hard to predict. That and it keeps me aware of what I'm up against and opposed to submission."

"Whatever you do, don't let Ivan see it."

Red scoffed. "As if. Valuable copy, remember?"

The silence stretched on for a full minute before Red sighed and said, "If you have something to say, Alfred, say it. I have the evening gathering to attend in a half hour, and it will be all the more unpleasant if I can't have a quiet smoke beforehand."

Alfred chewed his lip. "Do you… _really_ have to smoke so much?"

" _Alfred_."

Alfred sighed and supposed there could be no more digressing. "Red, a few weeks ago I felt—"

"You don't have to say it."

Alfred paused to stare. "Say… what?" He hoped Red didn't already know what he was about to say, but then it would be easier on his part if she did, as morbid as that sounded.

Red was staring at _Animal Farm_ where it sat on her pillow. The spine was wrinkled and worn with use. "Penny. I know she's gone." Alfred didn't know he'd drawn a quick breath until Red lifted her eyes to him. "I tried as much as I could to get assigned to the mission to track her, but in the end the Overlord sent some other captain. It didn't take long to find her. She was probably on her way here, the stubborn, noble dumbass. They had a party to congratulate the captain who'd captured her with all of the other captains invited. Her body was brought out as evidence to his triumph. We were all obligated to walk by her, spit on her. I didn't, though. I overturned my wine glass on her face, and they all cheered as if I had degraded her in some way. She liked wine, but not mine. Or so she claimed. I always caught her sneaking some from my casks. But I never said anything. We both knew, but we never talked about it. There are so many things we never talked about." Red paused to take a breath and exhaled deeply. "I miss her."

Alfred didn't know what to do. Comforting Red was the sort of thing that was always puzzling to him. She didn't like to be held or touched or condoled, and Alfred understood her reasons. Doing so would only coax out negative emotions that none of them could spare at the moment and only serve to remind of how much they had lost in so little time. So Alfred just sat there, wringing his hands, and wondering if he should continue delivering the bad news.

"Montie's dead," he said, wanting to get it over with. "Ruby, too. But we saw Wynston. He's alive and well."

Alfred studied her face for a moment, seeing her swallow. "Shame," she finally responded. "Ruby was a good dog."

Alfred could tell that Red was trying her best to push the thought of another sister dead to the back of her mind. Addressing it was something she was not yet prepared to do.

Five minutes of silence passed before Alfred thought it fit to leave Red to her thoughts. He could sense his presence was making her uncomfortable; if he knew his daughter well enough, it was because she was becoming increasingly unable to suppress her emotions, to keep them from showing on her face. As of then, it was blank, and Alfred didn't waste any time getting up and leaving—but not before pressing his lips to her forehead.

No words were exchanged; the atmosphere created between them was far too fragile to break. Instead, Alfred left the room without so much as a 'goodnight,' shutting the door without a sound as he went out. Once outside, Alfred let out a heavy breath and realized he was shaking. He did his best to calm himself, to banish sorrow-tempting memories from his mind, before returning to his room. Matthew was already asleep. Francis was gone, probably to bathe, but Arthur was nowhere to be found. Alfred assumed he had gone off to scope out the bunker or speak to some of the squad, but in the back of his mind he knew very well where Arthur went. Francis's absence along with his was enough to confirm it. Alfred, however, would not acknowledge it. The envy he would feel because of it might make him do stupid things.

Alfred lay down on his cot and tried to sleep. It was only when Ivan returned to lay in his own sleeping bag at the foot of the cot that sleep finally found Alfred.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Are you getting the sense that there is perhaps something... more between Red and Penny? Good, 'cause there is, but that will be expanded upon later.

And, wow, this is weird. Makes me feel like I'm giving a half-assed post because it's so tiny, haha. But, honestly, I could find no place for this bit. It was a little part squashed between two big parts, that and I'm kind of trying to stall. Anyway, I think you'll like next chapter. I've been stalling on the events of next chapter as well for the majority of the fic. Well, go on, have a look. *waggles eyebrows*

*Oops! Forgot to mention that Ruby Red (the dog) was named after Red.


	98. Maybe

**Okay, enough tension. Here's some FrUK, because _I just couldn't take it anymore_. XD  
**

Warning: Lemon, FrUK (like legit smut), innuendo, mention of rape, comfort sex (somewhat), uke!England, fluff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Maybe**

Francis couldn't remember being so excited for anything in his life. He turned on the water and hooked the hose into the tub. He breathed in the steam with a sigh. "Ah, hot water. I've missed you."

If he had a choice between a quick rinse in the shower or a long soak in the tub (which he did, since the others said they would take theirs tomorrow with it being so late), Francis would choose the latter. Not only because all the grime he had collected would never completely wash off with just a shower, but because now that Francis had been presented with the opportunity of a bath, he was immediately met with the memories of the rape and how he had never properly washed off afterward. He tried not to think about it often. After all, he had only been raped on one occasion (however by multiple men), and after hearing Red's report of how all the women had been forced into sexual service by the Organization (and no doubt many young girls and boys), Francis felt ashamed at the thought of even mentioning what had happened to him. That and it struck a blow at his control, what he always thought he had in situations pertaining to sex. He had won some back, sure, but his confidence was still lacking greatly compared to his old self.

He decided that busying himself with undressing would take his mind off the subject. While the tub filled, Francis piled his clothes on the floor. In normal circumstances he would take better care of his garments, but they had been through enough hell for their stay on the floor to have little to no effect on them.

The water was certainly hot, just below scalding, but Francis wouldn't have minded if it was boiling as long as it did its job. It took him a while to get all the way in, but when he did he just sat there for a moment, taking in the water enveloping him like a blanket and the steam making his head feel thick and dizzy. He closed his eyes and rested his head back against the tub. God, he could just live in here…

"Don't fall asleep, now."

The voice made Francis jump and snap his head up to see Arthur standing there with a bundle of clothes tucked under one arm, watching him. "Wouldn't want to see you drown in a tub after coming all this way."

Francis smiled in relief, his heart still fluttering from the scare. They were all too on edge of late. "Well, I don't know, cher. I just might. But there is a way to keep that from happening."

"Oh?"

Francis's smile stretched into a leer. "You could keep me awake." He moved a little to the side in the tub, the water sloshing as he did so, beckoning to Arthur. "Join me. It feels heavenly."

Arthur set his clothes down (he had packed his own, but they had been too thin to wear earlier during their trek through the snow) and began to remove the ones he was wearing. "I'm sure it does, if the choking steam isn't evidence enough."

Arthur could feel Francis's eyes on him the whole time he was undressing, which was nothing he wasn't used to or didn't expect. What he didn't expect was how stimulating it would be. He decided to get in before certain parts of him began to respond.

Compared to the cold they'd faced for weeks on end, the bath was nigh on boiling. Couple that with Arthur's delicate skin, and it was almost unbearable. _Almost,_ Arthur thought as he sank in.

As soon as their skin touched, Arthur felt like he could finally relax. "God, you weren't wrong."

Francis smiled. "Am I ever?"

Arthur gave him a withering look before leaning his head back and closing his eyes. After a minute or so of quiet, Francis said, "We should probably wash."

Arthur exhaled in a gust. "Frankly, I don't think I'll be able to convince myself to move."

"You don't have to. I could wash you."

Arthur lifted one lid to eye him critically. "You'd like that, wouldn't you, wanker?"

"Why wouldn't I?" Francis replied with his signature charming smile. He hadn't sported it in so long his face hurt just to recreate it.

Arthur pulled himself into a seated position before rising to his knees and swinging one leg over Francis's lap, where shortly after he settled himself. He lazily drew his arms up around Francis's neck, leaning down to press their lips together. Surprised, but far from displeased, Francis wrapped his arms around Arthur's waist and reciprocated in kind.

"Hmm, careful now, cher," Francis scolded after ending the kiss. "Someone might walk in and catch us."

"Well, that would certainly be impossible," Arthur replied cheekily, nipping Francis's earlobe. "Considering I locked the door on my way in."

Francis couldn't keep a smirk from stretching across his face at that. "Ah, so you planned this?"

Arthur sat back and cocked his head, eyes going to the ceiling in ponderous thought before meeting Francis's gaze again. "More like you presented the opportunity. Besides, it isn't as if we'll have the privacy anywhere else in this bunker."

Francis ran his hands up Arthur's curving back, realizing how much he'd missed the feel of the Briton's skin. "You would be surprised how discreet I can be."

"As tempting as that offer sounds, I'd rather not take my chances," Arthur said firmly before curling his fingers in Francis's hair and continuing with his lips down his neck. "I fear we'd scar poor Alfred. You remember as well as I do that time he walked in on us when he was younger…"

Francis sighed and said, "Hm, oui, and you quit right in the middle of it to go out and explain it to him—which you barely did, as I came to understand a little later on."

Arthur huffed, pulling back and shaking his head in obvious distaste. "Yes, yes, I already know you wasted no time in sullying him after I left him to his own devices. I don't need to hear anymore than that, or all we'll be doing is washing ourselves."

"Oh?" Francis prompted, trailing a hand beneath the water and around Arthur's hip to run his fingers up the Briton's softened shaft. "You're having trouble? While that does not surprise me, I will be glad to help." And he curled his hand around Arthur's cock.

Arthur buried his nose in the crook of Francis's neck, nails digging into the man's shoulders. "Sod," he half groaned.

Francis knew that asking now would irritate Arthur, but he had to know in order to continue. "How are your hands?"

As he predicted, Arthur gave an annoyed sigh. "Fine, for Christ's sake. But I'll forget about them all the sooner if you'd fuck me."

Francis stopped what he was doing, shocked, until Arthur sat back, impatient. "What?" the Brit insisted.

"You have just asked me to fuck you, oui?" Francis ventured, heart starting to pound at just the thought.

Arthur glanced away. "Er, well, I figured I already had my turn playing top, so it would only be fair if I, you know." His face slowly reddened as he spoke until it was bright with his embarrassment. The truth was, he had been thinking about this day ever since that time in the tent when he thought Francis meant to top him. At first, he'd been relieved that it never played out that way, but afterward he felt a bit guilty. Francis had been raped, and Arthur didn't want to bring back memories of that experience further by continuing to top him. Despite only having done so once since it all started (their sex life had been quite dead for a while, as ironic as it sounded with Francis being the other half of the relationship) and knowing that with time Francis would heal from the physical and mental scars left over, he knew he needed to let Francis take control, if only on this one occasion. What Arthur wouldn't admit to himself was that he'd always had a lingering curiosity about how it would feel to be taken by Francis, if any of the rumors could attest.

Francis was happier than he had been since the Uprising began. He knew this was a big step for Arthur to take, and the fact that he was taking it for Francis reaffirmed the Frenchman's love for him. He lifted his hands to Arthur's face, turning it so that they met eyes. "Thank you, mon chéri."

Arthur's eyes darted away and he flushed another shade darker, if that was even possible. "W-we haven't even started yet, you twit…"

Francis took that as permission to start administering to Arthur again. The Briton groaned and rested his forehead on Francis's shoulder, arms tightening around the Frenchman as his cock was stroked by deft fingers. He hadn't gotten off in so long he was achingly hard within half a minute and was forced to tell Francis to stop or it might end too soon.

Francis laughed as he removed his hand. "Do not be ashamed, amour. You would not be the first to come early by my hand."

Arthur nipped harshly at Francis's neck. "You're really pushing your chances, frog."

Francis only hummed in response and slid his hands down to Arthur's ass, taking handfuls of flesh from each cheek.

"Unh," Arthur grunted, forgetting how arousing touch could be back there. He shifted a bit to distract from the embarrassing sound that had escaped him and trailed encouraging kisses down Francis's neck. He could feel Francis's smile against his cheek as fingers made their way to the cleft of his ass.

Francis took his sweet time teasing Arthur, rubbing his fingers in the sensitive cavern before venturing deeper to press at his hole. Francis, by this point, was beside himself. He couldn't believe that it took the end of the world for him to be in such a position with Arthur.

Arthur moaned louder than he would have preferred and pushed himself back into the teasing fingers. When Francis stopped, Arthur shifted. "Don't tell me your sex drive is gone, frog."

Francis sighed. "Amour, look at me."

Arthur returned the heavy breath, impatient, and drew back to do as he was told (all for Francis's well-being, mind you). He was flushed and panting, but his annoyance won out his embarrassment. "What? Not good enough for you?"

"No," Francis replied, giving the catty Brit a peck on the lips. "It's perfect. But… are you sure you want this?"

Arthur stared, gaping, for a moment, before he snapped, "You've been molesting me for years on end and now when I'm offering myself to you _willingly_ , you're hesitant?"

Francis blinked, realizing how stupid it sounded, but he continued nonetheless, "I just don't want to cause you harm, cher. I don't know if you're ready."

Arthur stared for a few more seconds until he had the sense to shut his mouth and snatch up Francis's hand, taking hold of a slender finger and directing it to his hole. " _Harm_? You know well I'm not a virgin."

Francis moved his hand out of Arthur's grip. "I know… but are you _ready_ for this?"

Arthur huffed before coming to a realization. He met Francis's eyes and said, "I think that's a question you're asking yourself, love."

Francis's eyes went wide at that and quickly darted away, hand retracting to rest on Arthur's hip, fingers curling in self doubt. _Was_ he ready for this? He scoffed inwardly. What a question to ask himself. He thrived on encounters like this (especially since it was with Arthur), and now when he finally had someone he'd wanted for hundreds of years in his grasp, actually _compliant_ , his brain had to go and make things complicated.

He knew why. He didn't like returning to his rape, but for some reason Arthur sitting in his lap forced him to relive it somewhat. He could squash the images, he found, but he could never banish the scars. It seemed stupid for Francis of all people to be compromised over something that was… that was… well, _what_ was it to him, exactly? He tried to come up with an answer, but then he realized that he was starting to shake. Francis became angry at himself—frustrated. Arthur was right _there_ , so close after so long, and now Francis couldn't do what he wanted because of what those men had done to him. It made him feel weak and helpless, like a cripple. He didn't feel like himself anymore. This apprehension he possessed was not like him. Hell, he wasn't sure if he still was _him_.

Arthur was alarmed when he felt Francis trembling beneath him. "Francis?" He took the man's hand in his and laced their fingers together. "Francis, there's nothing wrong—"

"Mais, there _is_ ," Francis insisted, unnerved by how feathery his voice sounded. He shook his head and lowered it, grateful for the hair spilling over his ashamed face. A pity he couldn't hide his crying as well.

Arthur didn't know how to approach a situation like this, especially when it involved Francis. But his body moved without his control, hands going to either side of Francis's face and tipping the man's head back up. Arthur's heart sank. He had seen Francis cry before, but _this_ … it was self-torture.

 _I shouldn't have come in,_ Arthur thought. _I should have known he wouldn't be able to take this. It's too soon._

"Francis," Arthur began softly, not wanting to set the man off further. Francis was currently trying to regain some composure, but his flushed face and swimming eyes remained unchanged. Arthur wiped the tears that escaped with his thumbs. "We don't have to do this now. We can wait."

That only made Francis distress more. "No, cher, we _can't_. We might die soon. I… I don't want to be the reason why we never got to do this if we are killed."

Arthur took a deep breath, though he inwardly agreed with Francis, he couldn't just let the man continue to blame himself as a result of an event that had been beyond his control. "Francis, this is not your fault. Tell me you know that." When Francis didn't do anything but sniff, Arthur urged, "Tell me, Francis."

"It's… it's not m-my fault," Francis conceded, though Arthur could tell by his enduring tears that Francis himself did not truly believe the words he'd said.

"It isn't your fault," Arthur insisted, kissing Francis's forehead. "And not doing this won't make me angry."

"But I _want_ to do this," Francis said, sniffling.

"Then we can," Arthur replied, brushing back Francis's hair from his face. "I love you, Francis, and no matter what happens, I'm here. I know I can't ask you to forget. There are some things none of us can forget. But I'm willing to help you through whatever is troubling you." He swallowed mentioning the reason behind Francis's breakdown. "Just… just watch me." Arthur felt uncomfortable just saying it, but he knew this was something that might work. "Keep your eyes open and on me, okay?"

Francis gave one last sniff and allowed Arthur to place his hands back on the Briton's ass. "D-d'accord."

Arthur nodded in encouragement, slowly easing Francis's fingers into his crease. "Easy now, ah…"

Francis didn't know at first what Arthur's intentions were regarding his desire for Francis to watch him, but when he witnessed Arthur bite his lip in obvious pleasure Francis had an idea why. He longed to see more of Arthur, to have the man fill his mind's eye instead of the horrible images and feelings that were lurking inside. Spurned, he dug his fingers in deeper, once again finding Arthur's hole and pressing at it.

Arthur wanted to hide his face and swallow the aroused little noises he made every time even one of Francis's fingers so much as ghosted over his skin, but the way Francis was obediently holding Arthur's gaze, how those eyes seemed to drink in Arthur's every reaction, ensnared the Briton. Arthur's confidence was waning, but just knowing Francis was regaining his own was enough for him to endure. So, when Francis breached Arthur's insides with a gentle fingertip, the latter did not hide. This was, after all, for Francis.

 _I want you back,_ Arthur thought as the finger plunged deeper, and he let out a hiss at how uncomfortable it felt to have something up there after so long. _God, what have they done to you, Francis? What happened to all of your pervy comments? Why does your smile never reach your eyes? Don't let them change who you are, dirty frog. I will not lose you as well._ He scoffed mentally at thinking such cheesy absurdities, but he found that he did not feel ashamed, that every word of his musings were rooted deeply in his subconscious as genuine concerns. He was never more aware of how much he loved Francis than now, and it came as a surprise. But it was a happy surprise.

Francis wormed another finger into Arthur's ass and then began to thrust both softly. Arthur's face scrunched up a bit at the discomfort he felt, eyes squinted shut for a moment before Francis was once again met with hooded green irises and parted pink lips. He immediately concluded that it was a sight he would never tire of.

The sting in Arthur's ass was something that would have bothered him before his hands had been burned and various other events had damaged his body. But he didn't have to experience it long, he was shocked to find. "A-ah, God!" Arthur's fingers dug into Francis's shoulders and his back curved inward like a cat's. After getting his voice in check, Arthur searched Francis's gaze with surprise. "How in the bloody hell did you _do_ that?" No one had been able to locate his prostate so quickly, not even Arthur himself (which, saying it that way, seemed pretty pathetic).

Francis smirked. "You are asking _me_ that, cher?"

Arthur snorted but was too relieved to see Francis back to his old tricks to remark. Instead, he rocked his hips to the slow rhythm Francis had set with his fingers, a moan working up from his throat every time his sweet spot was touched. It felt so good to be on the receiving end, Arthur had to admit, even if they were just in the stretching phase. Considering the length of time that had passed between Arthur being in such a position and now, a little pain was only predictable. It was also predictable that the initial penetration would hurt, but Francis's teasing fingers made him forget about that.

As much as Francis would have loved to keep going so that he could see Arthur squirm, he decided that the man didn't deserve to be teased for so long, especially since their bodies were so weak from devoting so much energy just to survive. He extracted his fingers and directed them to wrap around his own cock, relieved to feel that he didn't need to waste further time getting himself prepared (or that he, thankfully, hadn't gone soft with his little meltdown). He seized those panting lips that had in turn been visually teasing him, working them apart and convincing Arthur's wall of teeth to allow him to explore. Arthur conceded and moaned at the thrill of heat that rolled through his body, warm fingers that spread out under his skin. That alone could have been enough, but when Arthur felt Francis's cock stir against his ass, he ended the kiss.

"Do it," Arthur all but ordered, though it was hard to discern the sternness of it for the Brit's heavy breath and pleading expression. "Please, Francis."

As much as it aroused Francis to hear Arthur begging for him, he knew very well that going too far too fast could hurt the both of them, and that was the last thing he wanted and they needed. He fixed Arthur with a concerned stare and said, "You are ready?"

Arthur smiled, and fuck, had Francis missed that smile. "As ready as you are, love."

And Francis _was_ ready. He kept telling himself that as he lined himself up with Arthur's stretched entrance. All the other times he'd slept with Arthur since their relationship began he had been in a submissive position (mostly for Arthur's sake), before and after his rape, but this would truly be his chance to reassert control and regain the dominance he'd lost. How could he not take the opportunity when for two straight months his life had been dictated by a horde of homicidal maniacs?

"Ngh." Arthur winced, nails leaving crescent-shaped marks on Francis's slick skin.

"Are you okay?" Francis asked, guilty that they were doing this in the bath where proper lubricant would be washed away by the water.

"Y-yeah," Arthur assured, composing himself at Francis's voiced concern, but he could tell by the Frenchman's easing minitrations that he did not believe him. "I'm fine," Arthur insisted, startled that Francis's cock felt so big in him when only half had managed to breach him. Wow, it really had been a long time…

"Unf," Arthur grunted when Francis was seated all the way inside. To help stem his discomfort, Francis took up Arthur's depraved cock and set to stroking it. Arthur groaned and buried his nose in Francis's neck, distracting himself by tasting the skin he found there. Francis slid all the way inside.

"Mmm." Arthur was tight and soft inside, sapping all of Francis's endurance to the point he thought he might come too early, and Arthur's teasing did not help him. He shifted his hips a bit, silently urging Arthur to move. He wished he were in a position to administer completely to Arthur himself so that the Brit wasn't the only one burning much-needed energy, but he knew Arthur would have it no other way. If Arthur was bottoming he was bottoming from the top, and Francis didn't need to be told to acknowledge that, knowing Arthur so well.

Arthur got the hint and banished his sluggishness caused by the bathwater to do his bit. Resting his forehead on Francis's warm, familiar shoulder, he began to ride the man he'd sworn he would never sleep with for centuries. The irony was lost on him as he was finally able to glean some pleasure from the cock in his ass. He lifted his head to rest it against Francis's shoulder, his moans reverberating in his lover's ear and sending a shudder through the other man's body. Francis guided Arthur by his hips, and soon they had set a pace that had them both voicing their pleasure. Fuck, Arthur had forgotten how good it felt to be fucked.

When Francis felt Arthur growing restless against him, he decided to quicken their activities. At this, he received an appreciative groan of, "Oh, G-God, Francis," and Arthur crashed their lips together in a desperate attempt to silence any other passionate outbursts. But Francis knew what Arthur was playing at. He hadn't associated with Arthur for hundreds of years and been oblivious to the man's every tendency. Francis pulled his lips away, receiving a whine from Arthur that was promptly cut off, urging Arthur's back erect so he could have proper access to the man's front.

"Arthur, you do not have to hide anything from me," Francis told his lover between kissing a line down Arthur's neck to his collarbone. "Je veux écouter ton voix."

Arthur hated the fact that the gruffly-spoken French made him shiver, but that could just be Francis trailing the tip of his tongue around one of his nipples. "Y-you're such a fucking fro— _fuck_."

Francis had latched onto the nub with his teeth and gently tugged, sending Arthur into fits of unsuppressed moans, his hips nearly pistoning. By the time Francis took the whole thing into his mouth, suckling, Arthur was pulling at his hair until he got Francis's attention and rattled out, "Francis, fuck, touch me, please, my cock… touch my cock, _please_." Arthur felt he had never wanted anything more in his entire life than to get off right then with Francis's cock up his ass.

Francis couldn't ignore such a sweet beg, and his hand plunged down into the water, now sloshing around them, to wrap around Arthur, pumping him in the hurried rhythm of their lovemaking.

"Francis—shit, oh God," Arthur groaned throwing his head back and allowing Francis to discover and ravage new expanses of skin. Arthur clutched Francis to him, suddenly seized with a fear of losing him. He was moving to such an extent that he knew his body would ache afterward, and he knew from the start that his ass would be sore, but all that mattered was the release he'd been needing for _so long_.

Francis made his way up Arthur's neck to his ear, brushing his lips over the shell of it, breathing a warm, "Je t'aime," before trailing up his jaw, swallowing Arthur's persisting moans in breathless kisses. Arthur reciprocated to the best of his abilities, but Francis's cock moving in him and assaulting his previously dormant prostate proved extremely distracting, and he allowed himself to be plundered without complaint.

Francis squeezing his cock with every strike of his sweet spot got him off in the end. Arthur became so in need of air that he was forced to part with Francis's insistent lips and rest his forehead against the other's, shuddering and twitching and clutching in orgasm, biting his tongue to silence himself in case others heard. Francis's hand did not still on him, milking him completely and then some, not wholly stopping until he himself had come with a quivering breath and a few French swears.

It took longer than usual for Arthur to fully recover, a span of about two minutes during which all that could be heard was labored breathing and rippling water. The feel of Francis's cum in his ass shouldn't feel nice, Arthur told himself, but his satisfaction won out over his usual emotions. He opened his eyes to see Francis's blue ones staring at him, observing him. Arthur wanted to scoff, but he could only smile, and a laugh somehow slipped out.

That made Francis smile as well. "Something is funny?"

Arthur shook his head and lifted himself off of Francis's cock, feeling already empty without him, moving his cramped legs over so that he was sitting between Francis's and leaning back against him. He let his head rest on the man's chest, growing drowsy with the rhythmic rise and fall of his ribcage and the warmth of the bath. "Nothing. I just never thought I'd do that."

Francis shrugged, a smug look taking over his face. "It was bound to happen sometime, amour."

Arthur rolled his eyes, but his smile didn't fade. He was glad that the Frenchman didn't see it. He was sure it was pretty inane. Although that could just be from the intense orgasm he just had. "There's the frog I know."

Eventually, they decided it best to wash themselves. They were too tired to participate in anymore activities apart from occasionally touching each other as they worked the soap into their skin or scooped water over their heads. Arthur's hands were relieved by the water, it having cooled significantly. They did not speak to each other, relishing the time they had together, the silence too precious to break. All that could be said had been, and by the time they finished they had settled back into their previous position, with Arthur leaning onto Francis from between the man's legs with Francis's arms around his waist.

They sat in the water for five minutes more, not caring if the bath was cold or dirty, just enjoying each others' presence. Arthur vaguely wondered how Alfred's face would look if he happened to walk in on them now instead of when they were engaged in hate sex (it had only continued to second base, really). The idea made him snicker, feeling giddier than usual, and he woke Francis from a doze.

"We should probably get out," the Frenchman suggested.

"Definitely," Arthur agreed, using Francis's legs to propel himself up. "They'll know what we did in here, no doubt, judging from how long your bath took and the fact that we're both missing simultaneously." Try as he might, he couldn't keep a smirk from pulling at his lips.

Francis returned the expression, placing his hands on the side of the tub to help himself stand as Arthur stepped out. "You are the one who started it."

Arthur snorted, snatching up a towel and drying off his hair. "Like you didn't want it, dirty wanker." The words were snappish, but the smirk remained.

Francis got out of the tub and grabbed a towel of his own, distracted from drying himself by watching Arthur standing there, naked and wet and still flushed with sex and, well, by all means _his_. Before he could stop himself, he said, "I suppose if I were to ask you to marry me now, I would not have to wrestle you into it."

The statement caught Arthur off-guard, and he paused, back to Francis. The Frenchman bit his lip, heart pounding, wishing he could see Arthur's face to take in his current expression, whether what Francis had said would push the man away. Francis opened his mouth after half a minute, going to take back what he'd said, correct it, laugh it off, whatever it took to keep Arthur with him. But then Arthur cleared his throat, and Francis froze.

"Is that a request, frog?" Arthur still had his back to him, but now he turned to regard him with the same flirtatious (Francis thought he would never use that adjective with the Brit) smirk he had given him earlier. But it didn't reach Arthur's eyes. Instead, what he saw there was the sincerity of the question.

And Francis was awestruck. So much so that he didn't know how to respond. He stood there, blithering like an idiot while feeling so high he could barely remember to breathe. When Francis finally got a hold of himself, Arthur was staring at him, smirk disappeared, appearing… hurt. Francis supposed he was smiling and blubbering so much that the man had perceived that he was laughing, as if at a joke. Francis promptly corrected himself then.

And walked over to Arthur, grabbed his face, and kissed him.

"If you want, _more_ than a request," Francis answered, Arthur's face heating in his hands as a flush took over the other man's face.

And then Arthur was the one that was blithering. It was as if his tongue forgot how to form words. "Er… I…wow, um," Arthur faltered, unable to tear his eyes away from the man who was looking so adoringly at him. It was overwhelming, almost suffocating, the weight of what Francis was asking of him. But it was also exhilarating. _His_ choice. It had nothing to do with the world, nor his duties as a country. This was just for him and Francis and no one else. And, at the moment, he forgot about everything that had happened and stopped worrying about what _might_ happen. It was as if they were standing on a whole other plane of time.

Then Arthur found his voice and wrapped his arms around Francis's waist, pulling the man to him and feeling his warmth. He had missed the feel of someone else's skin against his own, but he knew he would receive no such satisfaction from touch unless it was with Francis. He propped his head comfortably beneath Francis's chin and said thoughtfully, "No… maybe you won't have to wrestle me this time."

Elation burst within Francis, but he knew Arthur wouldn't take kindly to him jumping up and down. Besides, his back kind of hurt from rubbing up against the tub. So he just smiled and said, "Hmm, I have always wondered how you would look in a wedding dress."

"And I've always wondered how you would sound if I kicked you in the bollocks."

Francis took a few steps back, understandably, a horrified expression on his face. "Mais, cher, you cannot do that! How else are we to have children?"

Arthur gaped. "And what makes you think we'll manage that nonsensical feat of science?"

Francis shrugged. "Your hips appear very promising in that department."

Arthur was about to deny Francis outright, and then he recalled his escape from that bunker in Wyoming and how he almost never _had_ escaped because his hips had become stuck in a window. He felt his hip with a hand and gave a defeated but no less sharp, "Shut up."

He kind of wished the smile would go away now. It was starting to hurt his face.

* * *

Translations:

D'accord-Okay

Je veux écouter ton voix-I want to hear your voice

A Word From the Writer: D'aww, the little passive-aggressive kinda proposal acceptance at the end. Hips don't lie, England, hips don't lie.

Phew, that felt great to get out of my system. It was about time they got together again, goddamn. It was almost like I was torturing myself by not writing this scene, and I could have written it any time, but I wanted to have them do it in a bathtub, so I waited. And waited. And waited. And thank fuck I can't get blueballs else I think mine would have shriveled up into raisins and dropped off _long_ before this, haha. On top of that, I think my Bell's Palsy is going away now. Yay!

Don't think this is the last bit of smut you'll get. There's still more to come... hehe, get it? Sometimes I think I have the mind of a 12-year-old boy, but no one's complaining, right?


	99. Wishful Thinking

**The moar you know.  
**

Warning: Angst, mention of inhumanities, sad stuff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Wishful Thinking**

Yao opened his eyes at the sudden smell and glanced down.

He still couldn't believe Kiku was sleeping this close to him. The smaller man was currently dozing, forehead pressed up against Yao's chest and his nose buried beneath the covers. Their legs were intertwined, and Kiku's arm had come to drape over Yao's hip during the night, inclined to twitch every so often with the events of his dreams. Seeing as Kiku had barely moved since they'd turned in last night, Yao guessed he was in a very deep and much-needed sleep. Yao smiled, becoming drowsy with how warm it was between them—he hadn't felt warmer since the snow came rolling in.

But then what he had smelled came walking through the door. He craned his neck as far as he thought would not wake Kiku and saw a bald, lean muscled man standing beside their cot, holding a steaming bowl.

"Um…" the stranger deadpanned, examining Yao and Kiku's current sleeping arrangements not-quite-so surreptitiously before continuing, "Yeah, um, brought you some breakfast."

As much as Yao wanted to ignore the man, roll over, and return to his slumber, his stomach gave a beastly growl, and he suddenly felt hungrier than he could ever remember being.

Naturally, the sound woke Kiku, who opened his sleep-swollen eyes and blinked groggily up at him before saying, "Hm, what is it?"

"Food?" drifted a voice from across the room, and they all turned their heads to see Feliciano sitting up on the cot Yao could distinctly remember he had been sharing with Ludwig. The German was nowhere to be found (which was only natural, seeing as Ludwig was an early riser), but Feliciano's attention was consumed by the bowl in the stranger's hand.

"There's more," the man told them. "Out in the meeting room." And he wisely gave the bowl he was carrying to Feliciano (who appeared wolfish in appetite), leaving the room with an awkward little wave.

Yao turned back to see Kiku leaning against the wall their cot was pushed up against, cross-legged and eyes locked on the door, as if seeing a ghost of the man that just left the room. "Who was that? I do not recall seeing him yesterday."

Yao shrugged. "Probably those two guys who were absent. Danny and… Tom?"

"Todd," Ludwig corrected and answered at once as he came walking in, towel draped over his shoulders and fringe hanging in damp strands over his brow. He took one glance at Feliciano eating (the Italian barely noticing his entrance for his gorging) and sighed hopelessly. "Feli, slow down. You will make yourself sick."

"Bu' I'm hungwie," Feliciano pouted with cheeks full of oatmeal. Fuck if it wasn't pasta, he was _starving_.

… But pasta would still be better.

Ludwig huffed wearily and took a seat in front of Feliciano, seeing no choice but to snatch the bowl away and feed the Italian himself. Feliciano whined, but Ludwig had to prevent him from swallowing the spoon whole as the German offered a spoonful to him.

Kiku would have liked to stay in their warm cot and watch the amusing scene, but Yao stood, pulling on some pants (to prevent unintentional awkwardness between them and the squad, he'd decided to sleep in his underwear) and insisting that Kiku do the same so he could get some food in him. Though from the sound of it, Yao seemed more anxious to eat than Kiku was.

The hallway was ominously quiet as Kiku followed Yao down to the so-called 'meeting room' they had all gathered in after their arrival at the bunker. They walked past the bathroom and could hear the shower running. As they neared the meeting room, voices drifted to them from within as well as the smell that had woken Yao from a dead sleep. Kiku had been dreaming—something he hadn't done in months, he'd been so tired.

He could still see it as clearly as if he had just been there. Like he had been standing on the veranda, his hands recalling the feel of the sun-yellow rail as he gripped it, the wind as it whispered over his face and combed through his hair. The smell of the place still lingered—warm and rich with summer, the pollen of freshly-bloomed flowers, the air crisp with greenery and the clean scent of water. Insects dominated the lush landscape, their humming going straight through his body, enveloping it in a drowsy, natural warmth he had not known for some time. The water was pure, rippling sunlight before him, licking at the columns below. The colors were almost overwhelming to Kiku's eye, all the greens and yellows and reds, he hadn't seen them in so long. They were almost too bright and too beautiful to behold. When he finally could take in his surroundings properly, however, he was nearly blinded again by tears. It was all so fragile, so precious, the balance he perceived. Yet it was indescribably _strong_. Like nothing could break it. Nothing could touch it. Here, Kiku was safe. Here, he was in the cradle of solitude and purity.

He hadn't visited Kinkaku-ji since trouble began with his economy, during which he was obliged to remain at his residence, but he knew this veranda, this rail, this _view_ better than he knew his own backyard. He saw a flock of birds take flight out of a cluster of red maples, crowding the air with chirps, and his fingers tightened on the rail. He never wanted to leave this place. He could live in the temple for the rest of his life and never grow displeased with his environment or miss any aspect of society. He could spend his days watching the mayflies alight on the water, spend his nights gazing at stars, lulled to sleep by the breeze and woken by birdsong.

That was why he'd almost cried when he woke up to find it all wasn't true. He was grateful that one of the squad had come in to distract Yao, else the man would have seen his tears, and he didn't need to be fretted over. Yet with the vision still swimming behind his eyes of the temple with its curving pagoda roof and liquid gold cloak, it was hard for Kiku to eat the oatmeal that had been placed in front of him at the table he was sitting at.

Yao was having no trouble whatsoever, not even displeased at the fact that the oatmeal was quite bland (near tasteless, he would say if he had more of a care), but food was food and he would not complain after being so long without a decent, hot meal. Todd had disappeared into his room down the hall that he presumably shared with Danny, clearly ashamed at having been locked out the previous night and so hesitant to confront them, which was just fine with Yao. He couldn't afford to have his meal interrupted, hungry as he was.

The newcomers had been so absorbed in eating that they barely acknowledged the other nations that were gathered around, having finished their own meals. They continued to converse quietly, so accustomed to using low voices, when they heard an echoing _clank_ rumble down the hall and immediately went silent. The tension was nearly palpable, and more than one person twitched in the direction of the hall, eager to get to their rooms and procure their weapons. But then they saw Shawn emerge, and the stiffness dissipated.

"Whoop, sorry," he said, his hair an example of the worst kind of bedhead. He was wearing a peculiar outfit presumed to be the Organization's uniform: black military-grade pants not all that different from their camouflage cousins, coupled with a long-sleeved turtle neck that clung tight to the body and a black vest with pockets for ammo and weapons or worse. He was dressed all in black from the chin down, complete with leather gloves and newly-shined boots. On his left breast was a gray insignia, a spiral with the red letters FOM across it. "Didn't mean to scare you guys." And he leaned against the wall, arms crossed, studying them. "Ya know, now that I look at you, you _do_ resemble countries. Dunno how, but…" He waved a dismissive hand and shook his shaggy head. "I dunno."

There was some awkward silence for a moment. The nations had barely interacted with anyone outside their own group, and all with whom they had were either states or backstabbers. They didn't know how to perceive this young man with his flyaway brown hair and relaxed gait and casual conversation, especially when Red wasn't around to be their intermediary.

Sensing their unease, Shawn said, "Red had to attend a last-minute Board meeting to evaluate the newbs, and Bernard had to stand in for her at the gathering. Todd and Dan were locked out last night. We went outside this morning to find them passed out in the room above, so we had to drag 'em back inside. Evans is in one of the rooms making sure Dan doesn't choke on his own puke. Glad my shift for _that_ is over." He tugged off his gloves and stuffed them in a back pocket. "Can't say I'll be equally as glad to be out here when Red comes back. Her squad messenger woke her at four to inform her of a Board meeting she was never told about. At least I wasn't there when she was woken up. She's fit to kill, then." He gave a little laugh and proceeded to take off his vest with the spiral insignia. Everyone's eyes focused on it.

"Squad messenger, you say?" Arthur finally spoke up. "You mean, she has more squad members than just you guys?"

Shawn peered up at them, stopping right in the middle of removing a magazine from his issued glock to laugh in disbelief. When he realized Arthur's question was serious, he said, "Well, yeah. We'd be a pretty sorry lot with just the five of us. Squads usually consist of at least fifty members. We're just some of the more senior ones, so she trusts us more." Then he gave a sly smile. "And as much as she might deny it, she sometimes seeks our advice as well."

"Advice?" Yao repeated. He needed to stop doing that before someone mistook him for a fool.

Shawn nodded. "Um, just before the Uprising I was enrolled in a political science class at Yale, working toward my Master's. Bernie is a retired sniper (though he never tells us where he served his tour), Todd monitored intel at the DoD, Dan was Todd's assistant, and Evans was a police officer. He's Red's right hand."

The last title made them all shiver, minds going instantly back to Jeanne. "Police officer?" Alfred said, confused. "I don't get it. How is he—"

At this, Shawn gave a wry smile. "I didn't either, at first. It took a while for Evans to tell me, but he wasn't actually a police officer. He was a government plant, assigned to move his way up the ranks in the department so that he could identify potential terrorists, manipulate investigations, and correspond with the people he worked for."

Alfred frowned. "And who would they be?"

"Who else?" Shawn said. "NSA. Thought you would know that one, man."

"I know of the plants," Alfred insisted, feeling a bit guilty as he said it, still confused. "But how can he still be, you know, _here_? Last I heard the NSA's headquarters at Fort Meade was blown to shit, and all the employees had been captured or executed." It was true. Really, it was no surprise to Alfred that they would be one of the first agencies to go. He honestly didn't know why the people who worked there didn't get out while they could.

Shawn bobbed his head in affirmation. "Yeah, you're not wrong. Building's nothing but a huge crater now. But some of the files on the agency's plants were burned or deleted before they were attacked, at least they had that much sense. While most of the plants have been located and captured, Evans is part of a small group that have completely disappeared off the radar. As far as the Overlord and his lapdogs know he's just some cop turned rogue, which is not hard to believe seeing as a good portion of the force has bent to the Organization's wishes. Probably revenge for not getting paid enough by the brass, in my opinion."

"Where do the others reside?" Arthur prompted. Their ignorance was what had fueled the Uprising, was what had killed Lovino and Gilbert and Sadiq and so many others. He was tired of not knowing, and if it took asking a million questions to get the answers he needed Arthur would gladly do so. "Is there some other bunker, perhaps a door that leads to one from here?"

"Nah, it'd be suspicious if all of the squad was bunking in some secret place at once," Shawn replied. He ran a finger over the polished barrel of his glock, Francis's eyes following it, recalling the feel of a similar barrel that had been pressed to his own head, standing naked and collared in that Wyoming town. "It's hard enough hiding where Red goes every evening. The captains, as a privilege given with their positions, are assigned their own quarters at the rear of their squad's bunker above. The bunkers are essentially just walled-off tunnels with stacked cots shoved inside. Heh, one of the bunkers is near a part of the tunnels that was only just recently closed off. We call it the Shithole, and for good reason; anyone who misbehaves is locked inside for a good week for 're-education' purposes. Needless to say that everyone avoids them when they get back."

"How do they not know, though?" Matthew plucked up his courage and asked. It felt good to ask questions. Answers gave him some control. "That you're leaving and all?"

"Curfew is at 11," Shawn explained, seeming somewhat entertained by their interrogation. "You turn in or you take a shift at the Shithole. No one disturbs us after that, but there are handpicked guards haunting the halls at all hours to make sure everyone stays where they're supposed to. We don't see them, but we know they got cams recording us inside, even in Red's place. She wears her mask at all times, and we saw that as rather useful." His sly grin returned. "So just before curfew, when everyone is headed back from the evening gathering, she chooses one of her own squad (we kind of rotate) and pulls them aside into a dark corner we've determined is not watched by the cameras and they exchange accessories and Red gives them her mask. Then the member with the mask returns to the bunker to occupy Red's quarters and entertain the cameras while Red shuffles off into the crowd to access the latch to this bunker. There _is_ a back door to this place, you know."

"No headcounts?" Yao inquired, shocked that the Organization overlooking the number of squad members returning to the bunker could come about so easily.

Shawn perked up at that. "Oh, there are. Multiple ones. You'd think the Overlord was OCD with how many headcounts he assigns. But I understand his reasoning. All members caught going AWOL are quickly found and taken away. No one knows what happens to them, but it's common suspicion that they're killed." Shawn chewed his lip for a moment, eyes glazing over in memory for a moment. Then he snapped to and continued, "No, we know how to take care of _that_ issue. Red's decoy doesn't return to the bunker alone. Didn't I say that one of us was completely off the Organization's radar?"

"Evans?" Francis asked rather stupidly, he surmised. Who else? "But how—"

"How does the Organization not notice he disappears and reappears only when it comes time for us to turn in?" Shawn finished, smile still on his face. "We thought that too at first. But then we began to realize after not getting caught for so long that the eyes that watch the cams don't give a shit about the little people. They only have eyes for the squad captains, especially Red, seeing as she wears a mask. So Evans takes the place of the decoy wearing Red's mask and then Red retires to the bunker to convene with us. Me, Todd, Dan, and Bernie always take the graveyard shift guarding one of the tunnel entrances," Shawn interjected when Arthur opened his mouth to ask something. "Luckily, the Organization only relies on the guards down there to report anything weird going on, so no cams. We go in pairs, and we convene with Red in the bunker one at a time while the other stands watch, then we switch off during the night. That's why Red was so pissed last night at Todd and Dan. They were supposed to be Bernie and I's partners on watch, but they decided they'd rather find some other fill-ins so they could go drinking at the officer's club that's open once a week catering to those that have worked the night shift. Good thing they had the sense to tell the guards taking their place that their partners had reported to their bunks or else we'd be really screwed."

"And…" Alfred began carefully, not sure if he wanted to hear the answer he was prompting. "No one notices that Red is not a member? I mean, she hasn't ever taken off her mask, so wouldn't suddenly seeing a redheaded girl among them make them a bit suspicious?"

"She's taken care of that. Her hair is still cut and she binds her chest so that no one knows she's a girl." Here Shawn frowned, as if trying to imagine Red as her original gender with little success. He shook his head. "Anyway, the Organization has referred indirectly in many of their speeches and doctrines to their disinterest with the individual person and addresses members only en masse. We're like one big unit to them, and every member is taught that as well, so they assume everyone attending the gatherings is just an extension of the Organization's militia. They won't pay any mind to some redhead that seems to come and go like a ghost. As long as she uses the crowd as cover after the evening gatherings, there's little chance she'll be noticed and caught."

"So you have planned the coup?" Ivan asked. He had been growing more anxious by the hour ever since he'd set foot in the bunker. He couldn't stand to just wait around knowing that at any second, when he may not be expecting it, an attack on the Organization's core would begin. He needed a date and time, and he most definitely needed a briefing. It was enough that Ivan felt naked without having the protective, immortal covering of a nation.

"Extensively," Shawn replied, and they didn't know whether to relax or tense. "But it's not for me to explain. That's Red's job. And she does it better than I ever could. I can't tell you the specifics until she gets back, but I will say it will happen within the week. You know, after she incorporates you into it." Then, with a cautious glance around the room and leaning peek down the hall, he whispered, "And don't tell her I said this, but she also wants to get some pointers from you guys."

It turned out that Red had more duties to attend to than just the Board meeting and wouldn't be returning until later, Shawn specified. The nations were then surprised to discover that it was only six a.m. After so long, the regimen of waking at dawn was still with them, even in the windowless sanctuary of the bunker. Shawn said that he would have to be leaving soon for the morning gathering, and it was soon after that another squad member they had never met emerged from one of the back rooms. He introduced himself as Seref, his smile wide behind his dark stubble as he shook hands with them all, though its hollowness was more than apparent. He explained that he'd been Red's decoy the night before and had switched off with her on her way to the Board meeting but would go up with the rest of his squad for the morning gathering. When asked how they'd managed such a feat without being caught by the cameras, he replied, "Even in sewer tunnels there are dark corners."

That was the extent of their conversation as an electronic horn sounded down the arched corridors and penetrated their little bunker, signaling the start of the morning gathering. Shawn and Seref bid them farewell until later that evening, though Seref was due to rotate with another squad member for decoy duty and Shawn would be switching out with either Bernard, Danny, or Todd during the guard night shift.

Until then, the nations were left alone and feeling rather out of place in the bunker. They spent their first ten minutes without the squad's company listening to the horn sound and a mass of feet move toward what they assumed to be the gathering place. No one moved, they barely even breathed, so scared were they of someone hearing them through the 12-inch thick concrete.

They waited several minutes after the feet vanished from their hearing before they broke off to wander and brood, which was just about all they could do. Those who had not taken advantage of the showers the night before did so then; there was enough hot water to assume that the bunker pipes were feeding off of the main tank the Organization had commandeered. Following that, there was nothing to do but wait and although some of them sported watches, the absence of the sun and sky made them feel as if they were living in a vacuum.

Mostly they just hung around in their rooms, sprawled out on their cots or sleeping bags. Kiku laid back on his own cot, hoping to return to sleep and the golden temple whose image was still a ghostly imprint behind his eyes, but his only reprieve was staring myopically at the gray ceiling in the gray room until everything started to blur. He caught himself then and glanced at his watch. He was astonished to find that two hours had passed since his daze had begun. The Kinkaku-ji was gone; only gray filled his vision now.

There were cards to play with, but they had been playing a game of chance since the Uprising, and they'd rather not add to their lot. So Francis sat at the table, fingering the edges, reveling in how sharp and perfectly smooth they were despite the wounded hands that held them. He entertained himself by stacking them and re-stacking them, sometimes even having the patience to build a house of cards that fell as easily as Versailles had been hacked at and statues toppled. Francis found himself becoming more and more morose as he stacked the cards, and soon he contented himself with shuffling them, placing the whole stack on the table, and swiping the card on top. On his first try he drew the Ace of Spades.

"I hate this," Alfred said from where he sat crosslegged in the corner of the meeting room. He was carving the J of his initials into the concrete floor with his pocketknife. "Waiting."

"All we've done is wait," Francis replied offhandedly as he shoved his card beneath the deck.

"I know, but…" Alfred sighed and ceased his scraping to examine his tired eyes in the dull, reflective metal. "This silence. It's gonna drive me outta my mind."

A song came unbidden to Arthur's mind, and without much thought he began to hum it. Alfred glanced over to him, the Briton sitting across the room with his knees pulled up to his chest, ankles crossed and knobby elbows resting on equally knobby kneecaps. No one would know what it was, but that was fine with Arthur. This song was not a song he wished to share with anyone but the person who he used to sing it with. The song was liquor-laced breaths and heavy, malfunctioning tongues, red hair that Arthur always found on his clothes the next day that he hesitated to pick off. _I don't want a harp or a halo, not me. Just give me a breeze and good rolling sea._ Arthur could almost smell the beer they were quaffing. Fuck, he needed one. No, he needed something stronger. He wouldn't even care if it was warm. Warm drinks went straight to head anyway. _And I'll play me old squeeze box as we sail along, when the wind's in the rigging to sing me this song._

The image of Ian with a 'squeeze box' made Arthur laugh, but his throat was sore and it was really more a cough. His vision blurred, hot and burning, and he scrubbed at his eyes. He didn't want the wind to sing the song. He wanted Ian to sing it, slurring the lyrics with an arm around him like Arthur only let him do when they were both shitfaced. _Just tell me old shipmates I'm taking a trip, mates, and I'll see them someday in the Fiddler's Green._

Except he wouldn't. He practiced black magic. For all intents and purposes, he should be going to Hell. And yet he recalled Britannia standing at the prow of her galley in the golden waters of what certainly wasn't Hell. Was it truly a visit from his mother or was it just a dream conjured by a brain deprived of oxygen?

When he sensed that there were eyes on him, Arthur cleared his throat and unfolded himself, standing. "Er… I'm going to sleep. It'll pass faster that way."

No one called after him or followed him. He could be grateful for that at least. He cleared his throat as he walked down the hallway to his room, determined to relieve the gravelly ache in it. He passed by the room the other half of them were sharing when he stopped dead.

 _Whispers,_ Arthur concluded as he listened beside the door. It was more akin to hissing, and no one he knew whispered in such a way. In fact, he was sure not even a demon whispered like that. Arthur put his ear to the door, trying to discern what was being said. Had someone gotten into the bunker? It sounded like only one person, so why were they whispering to themselves? Was he so mad that he was just hearing things?

His hand went to the doorknob, grasping lightly before turning it and flinging open the door in less than a millisecond.

Feliciano's head snapped to him, blinking wide amber eyes. "Arthur?"

Arthur blinked back at him, as equally surprised. "Er, Feliciano, were you… whispering to yourself just now?"

Feliciano scrunched up his nose in confusion and shook his head. "No. I just woke up."

Arthur frowned and craned his neck to peer around the room, wanting to enter to check things out, but his feet remained frozen to the floor just outside. He looked back at Feliciano and nodded. "Right then, er, continue with… whatever you were doing." _I'm going mad. That's it. Way to cause unnecessary fright._

Feliciano only stared at him as he shut the door. When he took his hand from the doorknob, he found that it was throbbing, a sharp sting rattling up his arm. He grunted and snatched his hand back, examining the knob, but nothing was out of place, as far as he could see. He reached out, trying to turn it again, but his hand protested harshly and he was forced to leave it at that and continue on to his room.

His hand was still burning as he entered, taking to the cot he shared with Francis and spreading his fingers against the cold concrete wall to soothe the pain. After it had ebbed, he stretched out on the cot and unwrapped the bandages to have a look. His face twisted into a wince, the scars newly red and swollen, seeming to pulse with each brush of gauze. Why hadn't he asked Red for medical treatment first thing? In his constant worry, he was starting to forget to take care of himself.

 _Whispers,_ Arthur mused as he wrapped the gauze around his palm again. _I've gone completely daft._

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: So... yeah, a bit slow, but that's kinda the point here. I just wanna make sure I give you as much information as I can before jumping right into things with some suspicious shit thrown in at the end to cut through all the briefing. Nothing will make sense otherwise, so your patience is appreciated.

And Kinkaku-ji is a Buddhist temple in Kyoto that dates back to the 14th century. Yes, it's roofs are covered in gold leaf.

 _The Fiddler's Green_ is a traditional folk song commonly attributed to the Irish. And for some strange reason it's used by the U.S. military to memorialize the deceased. Guess it's somehow related to why bagpipes are played at military funerals... either that, or there were a bunch of Irish (or Scots) in the U.S. Army at one point, which would not be hard to believe... idk, too lazy to research, bleh.

Stereotypes aside...


	100. Stand

**The moar, MOAR you know...  
**

Warning: Angst, mention of inhumanities, forced prostitution, and misogyny, Nichu fluff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Stand**

Needless to say, the whole fourteen hours they were left alone in the bunker were quite uneventful. Apart from listening to the scampering of feet back and forth above their heads or otherwise twiddling their thumbs, there was really nothing they could focus on but the fact that they were _just under_ the Organization's headquarters, that Red had said earlier that she had _no doubt_ the Overlord knew they were somewhere within. To them, the Overlord was seeming more and more to take up the image of a god in their minds rather than of the ordinary man they knew he would be.

They were scavenging through the leftovers of the food the squad had stockpiled when there was a knock on the door that went _heigh-ho, the derry-o, the farmer in the dell,_ and wary as they were they kept whoever was outside waiting and knocking for a good five minutes before procuring their weapons and unhooking the latch. Ear-length red curls bounced as Red dropped down and huffed, "Took you long enough."

"Sorry," Alfred cut in before any of them could, lowering his weapon with shaky hands. Fuck, he had been a breath away from downing his daughter. The thought turned his stomach.

"More recruits?" Yao made a point of asking, recalling Red's early meeting with the Board.

"Yup," Red scratched her head, nappy from the mask she'd been wearing the likes of which should now be hiding the face of one of her squad occupying her captain's quarters. She was dressed all in black, just as Shawn had been, but her vest was blue and studded with various FoM-awarded accolades. Around her neck was wrapped an azure scarf which appeared too spotless and costly to be worn for anything other than professional or ceremonial occasions. She wrestled with the thing as she walked down the hallway, as if it were a snake slowly trying to flatten her throat. "Got fifty through, as per protocol, though they get worse every time. More and more dumb, scared young kids who couldn't outrun the scouts and old geezers who came out of hiding at the wrong time. In other words, prime candidates for the Resistance—if we can squeeze the chickenshit outta them."

 _Chickenshit_. The word grabbed Matthew's attention. That was what he had been called when—

"Red?"

She discarded her scarf now, folding it carefully on the table though her icy glare made it seem as if she would rather put it through a shredder. "Yeah?"

Matthew swallowed. He didn't like bringing up bad memories, but then again this whole thing was just one, continuous bad memory anyway. "Um, we ran into a… a _woman_ in Chicago, and, uh, she had four guys with her. We thought she was good, but then she ended up, um, well… she hurt us and we found out that she was part of the Organization."

Red hummed suspiciously. "Hunh, that's weird. As far as I'm concerned, the squads are all male. All the women I know have been sanctioned off for exploitative purposes. Did she have a name?"

Matthew had followed Red unbidden down the hallway, rifle still in his hand. The others had followed like sheep, breath bated and waiting for Red's every reply. They all wanted to have a part in Jeanne's death if they could.

"Jeanne. Her name was Jeanne."

Although her back was to them, currently disarming her glock, Red's back stiffened obviously. "Jeanne, you said?"

Matthew nodded before he realized she couldn't see him and answered, "Yeah. She said the Overlord had a special job for her. That's why she joined. And she seemed to be leading the guys with her."

Red hummed again, but this one sounded more ominous. She took a breath and set her glock down, turning to them and searching their gazes. "You said she hurt you?"

Matthew inhaled shakily and said, his voice little louder than a whisper, "Because of her, Gilbert and Lovino died."

And that just tore the wounds Ivan thought he had covered right open. Ever since their deaths, he had been telling himself that it wasn't his fault. Anyone could make the mistake he had, of leading his group into Hell without knowing. But he couldn't change the fact that he was hundreds of years old and should by all intents and purposes know better—he should have been the one with the most knowledge of danger out of all of them. After all he had experienced in his history, he thought he would be able to tell if a situation was good or bad, but he was beginning to doubt himself and it was eating at him slowly. No matter his actions in the Chicago house, Ivan had been the one to convince Ludwig and Arthur and everyone else that Jeanne was trustworthy and in so doing had put the lives of everyone in danger and lost two. He had not fired the round that bloodied Gilbert's head nor had he tightened the noose around Lovino's neck, but he had trusted the one who was behind both of their deaths, had allowed her to get close enough to take their lives away, and that was enough for Ivan to conclude he'd had just as much a hand in their deaths as Jeanne or any of her vicious minions had. He couldn't trust himself, and right then he found himself thinking that maybe Alfred's distance from him was just as well. If it hadn't been for Jeanne's gun jamming, he would have killed Alfred too.

Red chewed her lip for a moment, reopening the delicate skin there, eyes downcast and unfocused as she rolled the name around in her head. "I have heard rumors… but otherwise her existence has been well guarded. You say she works for the Overlord… directly, I'm assuming, if her identity is so secret. While the Council's operations took a little time to follow, the Overlord's activities are nigh on impossible to track. Hell, for all we know he may just be some rogue super computer that has received enough information to mimic human tyrants. We've been trying for weeks to pinpoint his location, but we can't even say if he's _here_. His IP address is nonexistent on every system we've used, and whenever we attempt to track his activity more than a few times a huge firewall is erected the likes of which could wipe out our whole operating system. Whoever he is, the Overlord comes and goes and leaves no trail behind. It's almost like he has people cleaning up after him every time he contacts the Organization. I don't think this Jeanne would be one of them, if she's been busy leading a squad, but there was one incident I remember when her name was first mentioned to me.

"It was during my induction into the position of captain. They have a little ceremony (but I won't bore you with the details) and then they ship the lucky fuck off to the women's sector (which they call by a more vulgar name, go figure) where they can have a good time for free, which I always thought as total bullshit, since there really was no other place to spend our earnings if the economy was nonexistent. Anyway… I went there, put on a show for the guys as the girls put on a show for me… you know, the usual. When it came time to shuttle me off to a room for the real reward, I instead conversed with the girl ordered to service me.

"She was confused, needless to say, of my desire to talk more than _do_ , but I persisted and she was far from displeased. I didn't take off my mask, but she never asked about that either, nor why my pants felt looser than they ought to in such a situation. A good girl. Young, frightened, a bit dim. Perfect to interview. Wanting to know why the Overlord had separated the men and women, I asked whether she had heard anything that would pertain to the subject. It took nigh on a half hour to convince her to open up to me, since I was an officer, a captain at that, and she was suspicious of me, no doubt fearing the punishments that would follow her disclosing any such information to me. When the guys that had accompanied me to the sect knocked on the door and shouted if everything was coming out okay and other similar nonsense, I had no choice but to remove my mask or risk them blundering in for my extended absence. As far as I knew, there were no cameras in the private rooms, possibly because the Organization doesn't want the women thinking they can accuse the men of abuse and have them punished as a result. That would just throw a big wrench in their plans, seeing as they can't afford to lose even one of their troops. No cameras. No evidence. No problem.

"She said that she'd overheard senior officers discussing how shitty it was that they had to go all the way across headquarters with special security clearance just to reach the women's sector. One had wondered aloud why that was and the other replied that the sect was created for the sole purpose of serving the 'Expansion Program', which is just a fancy name for human breeding factory, which I was kind of expecting. But _then_ she said that one of the men mentioned the name 'Jeanne' and how she was 'a big player in the whole thing.' As vague as that was, the girl continued saying that she had sought out this Jeanne and had discovered from Jeanne's former associates (former, as she had been pulled from the 'stock' in prior days) that she was an unstable extremist who was ostracized by her peers for her growing insanity and paranoia."

Here, Matthew interrupted. He had to know everything about this woman. "Did she ever say why Jeanne was so… crazy?"

Red nodded. "Yeah. Jeanne would talk to things that weren't there. Sometimes she would sit staring at a wall mumbling for hours, refusing food or drink and snapping at anyone who came close to her, like a dog. Some said it was because she'd lost her family, but it came to light that it was more than just that. She's schizophrenic, that much was obvious, but why the Overlord decided such a person deserved a promotion is beyond me. I do know _one_ thing, though." Red ran a calloused thumb over the polished surface of her glock. "She _is_ at the center of the Expansion Program, however reclusive she may be. Oh sure, the Council barks out orders, but she's the one pulling all the strings. I never paid much attention to the whole expansion thing, but now that you mention her tracking you down with a squad of her own I think it's best that we continue our investigation. But if worse comes to worse, we'll push on with our original plan for the coup without worrying about that. We'll free the sect anyway when that happens and hopefully kill Jeanne in the process. Until then, though, we'll keep a sharp eye."

Disappointment fell on them all, the desire for retribution burning in their cores. But Arthur didn't share their reactions. He was too busy trying to quell the foreboding snake coiling deep in his belly, sending up warning hisses that made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

 _Voices,_ Arthur thought, the blood pumping in his ears increasing in volume with his recollections. _Whispers…_

The words were inching up Arthur's throat, the inquiry stalling at the tip of his tongue and ultimately dying with the harsh _creeaak_ of a chair as Red pulled it out from the table and sat down with a sigh. She ran fingers through her ruddy hair and regained her usual weary gaze.

"Guess I should tell you about the plan, huh?"

* * *

It didn't exactly conform to 'Trojan Horse', but it was a good plan nonetheless, and Alfred was impressed. Of course there were a few hiccups that were pointed out and debated as to how to correct, and in the end each of them contributed some sort of idea to it, even Feliciano.

In the middle of their discussion, knocks echoed down the hallway and they had to halt their talk to let in two men in identical black suits, led by Andre. One was tall and slim, with a bald head, a smooth face, flinty eyes, and a thin mouth—the same man they'd seen just that morning. The other was a squat man with a head of outgrown brown hair, a patchy goatee, and thick glasses who had the appearance of keeping in shape but whose perpetual plumpness was obvious in his face. They introduced themselves as Todd Karkas (the elder) and Danny Moss (the younger) before Red broke into a long lecture about their copious and negligent drinking habit and how next time their punishment would be much worse. They had just gotten back from guard duty, Shawn and Bernard keeping watch as their partners awaiting the night's promised rotation. They remained within the bunker for longer than usual, Red explaining to them the new plan dubbed simply as 'Checkmate.'

By the time she finished it was approaching midnight, and she dismissed Todd and Danny to relieve Shawn and Bernard, who arrived at the bunker ten minutes later. Red proceeded to inform them of the change in their plans, but by then most of the nations were too tired to add any further input, so they filed off to bed. Alfred felt guilty leaving Red to the discussion, seeing as she hadn't gotten any sleep for over nineteen hours (possibly more, if she was as anxious as Alfred and everyone else was), but he knew if he said anything about it Red would less than appreciate it, so he retired to the room he was sharing. Thankfully, he was so tired that his mind didn't run like it usually had for the past couple of months, not even when Ivan laid down in his sleeping bag at the foot of Alfred's cot, and as soon as he shut his eyes he was dead to the world.

Alfred woke in the afternoon, he soon found, judging by the digital clock situated on the meeting room table. He also discovered that it was December 11th and, seeing as the floor was littered with wet, powdery shoeprints, it was snowing.

"Hey," Andre greeted as he shuffled into the room, offering Alfred a coffee. Alfred took the Styrofoam cup gratefully, quickly blowing on it and setting it down to prevent burning himself. He sat down at the table, everyone else choosing to occupy the floor or remain in their respective rooms. It seemed weird to Alfred that they had spent so many hours by themselves in a place that was supposedly safe that they had stopped talking to each other and chosen instead to isolate themselves with their thoughts. They needed to end this before they became as hollow as those devoted to the Organization.

In the end, the afternoon passed without a word said between them. Andre remained lurking around the bunker, seeing as his presence among the squad would add unneeded numbers to their near constant headcounts. The man seemed to sense the mood between them, and he decided that retiring to his room without mention of the impending coup would be in their best interest. When his door shut quietly down the hall, the tension seemed to dissipate just a little.

* * *

"Do you think it's going to work?" Matthew asked quietly. He was lying stretched out on his back on his sleeping bag in his room, staring up at the colorless ceiling. _You think it's going to work, Sadiq?_

He didn't cry like he usually would with mention of his dead lover. Not anymore. He subconsciously reached down, running the frayed fabric of the man's bandana mask between his fingers which was still knotted tight around his upper arm. Instead of his eyes swimming, he stared unblinkingly upward, envisioning Sadiq's determined expression, his blissful, bed-tousled look as he told the story of how the merchant prevailed over the jinni. Then there was Carlos, his warm, sexy smile, the sweet and somewhat awkward way he wove his fingers with Matthew's.

"I'll make it work," Matthew promised. "For you."

"For who?"

Matthew craned his head upward to see Kiku standing over him. It was odd, Matthew thought, that Kiku was talking, seeing as he had barely spoken since their arrival at the bunker. "Um… for everyone who's gone. It's our responsibility, right?"

"Hai," Kiku sat down at the end of Matthew's sleeping bag, his knees tucked under him. His eyes seemed vacant as they studied the creases of the fabric, but then again they were always that way. Another thing the Organization could never change. "I understand your doubts. I have some as well."

Matthew stiffened at his words. He hadn't known the older man had such good hearing or else was eavesdropping, but he liked to think it was the former. "Yeah. I just hope all those who will die for this coup will have died for a reason."

"They will," Kiku assured, not lifting his eyes. "Even if we do not win, at least we can be remembered for trying. And they will be remembered too."

Matthew recalled all those meetings he used to attend if only unseen, all of those bored faces that surrounded him. They ignored him, which made it easy to study their habits. Vash's glare at every new speaker with Lily sitting and listening with sweet courtesy beside him. Soo's groping hands and his overly loud 'da-ze~!' when he was caught. The twitching of Natalya's eye every time she saw someone even glancing at Ivan. Roderich looking down into Elizaveta's lap, his face erupting into a bloom of color with the sight of what she was reading. Jack perpetually clicking his pen, always subconsciously chewing on the end before Sam would nudge him and urge him to be quiet and pay attention, to which the former would give a scoff (1). Sadiq leaning back in his chair with arms folded behind his head, tapping his foot beneath the table to the music that blasted from his not-so-hidden earphones. Toni's daydreaming eyes which occasionally flitted to Lovino, accompanied with a glowing smile, said Italian grimacing while he flushed from ears to neck. Gilbert somehow seeing it fit to storm in and crash the whole thing while everyone cursed his stupidity but inside were grateful such a convenient interruption had occurred.

It was true that Matthew was never a big fan of or a big player in the meetings, but when it came time to hold such gatherings again he feared he would be smothered by the memories of those who could never again attend.

And that, he supposed, was the fuel adding to their fire. This coup, whether it succeeded or failed, would be carried out as tribute to what everyone else wanted but ultimately hadn't had the chance to do. And who knew if who they were was entirely gone? Perhaps some day new Spains, new Australias, new Hungarys and Austrias and Switzerlands would pop up and embrace the values they had previously tossed away. And then Matthew would have a whole new lineup of nation's habits to study, new things to giggle at, new mistakes to cringe at. Then Matthew wouldn't mind being invisible, because not being seen allowed him to observe who everyone truly was when they thought no one was watching. _That_ , Matthew decided, was the thing he missed and looked forward to the most.

Kiku's thoughts, meanwhile, extended to the golden temple in his dreams, the sun glinting off not only his but a crowd of faces, all standing on the veranda, perhaps more golden than even the gold leaf of the temple. He stood and met Matthew's eyes.

"There is a saying: _fall down seven times, stand up eight_. We have been caught in a pattern of falling and standing back up for too long. And, despite knowing it is something that will persist for as long as any of us ever live, I hope what we plan to do here will be our eighth time standing up and not our seventh time falling."

He could feel Matthew's eyes on his back as he made his exit, shuffling back to his own room. He paused at the threshold, seeing Yao sprawled out on their cot, the image of exhaustion invoking carefree slumber, and Kiku contented himself just standing there and observing. His eyes drank up Yao's hair, unusually long from their trip, fanned out on the pillow, slender fingers curled slightly, legs folded over one another, one hand resting on Yao's stomach while the other kept company beside his ear. The eyes with deep purple smudges beneath closed, the brow unwrinkled, the muscles relaxed, the soft, twilight pink lips parted in shallow breaths. Kiku sincerely regretted that he'd never taken Yao to the golden temple. He would have made a sight fit to shame even the surrounding beauty.

* * *

No translations

References:

1-Jack and Sam are Australia and New Zealand. Just thought I should mention them since they get so little attention. Why, Hidekaz, _why_?

A Word From the Writer: Another slow, informational one, but I guarantee this is all leading up to something big, so stick with it! Time is grinding down, and there are a few more things that need to be addressed before the action can begin. I wanna make sure this can all come together as easily as possible without any loose strings.

Btw, 100th chapter, ftw! Damn, didn't even know I had it in me, hehe. And I thought I'd have finished this thing before 100, but no... nearly a whole year and 100 chapters later, here we are, still only really on the doorstep. I thank everyone who has stuck with this fic for this long and commend you on your patience. I couldn't have done it without your enduring support!

All my love~ X3


	101. Departed

**A bitchslap of nostalgia.  
**

Warning: Sad stuff, some Prumano, mention of drinking

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Departed**

" _Hey!"_

_Feliciano was standing in a large empty space, hospital white. There were no corners, there was no end or beginning, and shadows were nonexistent._

_Now someone was calling to him, an echoing voice that seemed to shimmer when it met his ears. "Hey! Over here, dumbass!" it shouted, and Feliciano spun around._

_Lovino was standing there across an unfathomable distance, close and far away all at once. He was dressed in his usual uniform, though it was as white as his surroundings, making it seem as though most of his body was gone. His skin seemed to glow, and his dark eyes projected themselves across the space; it was as if Feliciano was so close that he was staring right through them and them through him._

_But he did not have the chance to fully appreciate Lovino's presence before his eyes blurred his brother's image with tears. "Lovi!" he cried and made to run to him._

_"No, stay there," Lovino said, and Feliciano stopped in his tracks, blinking the tears from his eyes. Then the older's face broke into a smile the likes of which Feliciano had only witnessed a handful of times in his life. "Fratello, what happened? You look like shit."_

_Feliciano sniffed and rubbed at his eyes. "Y-you l-left me," he accused shakily._

_Lovino's smile disappeared and he sighed, "Feliciano, I'm so sorry. But you have the potato head to take care of you now."_

_Feliciano started to sob anew. "Th-that doesn't mean I d-don't miss you!"_

_Lovino gave a sad smile. "I miss you too, Feli. But you know the rules. I can't come back, but I can visit. And I brought friends."_

_Feliciano hiccupped and wiped his face on his sleeve before peering up with wide, blinking eyes. "Friends?"_

_Lovino nodded and said, "Okay, guys, if you want to say some sappy shit, you better do it now. You know we only have so much time."_

_Gradually, darker forms began to fade into view; first one, then three, then seven, then—_

_Feliciano's legs began to turn to jelly. "All… all of you."_

_"Not quite! Kesese!" Gilbert's laugh rang through the empty air and his vermillion eyes flashed like beacons as he sprung up behind Lovino and wrapped his arms around him, clinging._

_Lovino scowled and attempted to wrench free of the vice grip. "Just because I'm dead doesn't mean I can't pound your fucking face in, bastard!"_

_"Relax, mi tomate lindo. You know he means well." Toni's voice reached Feliciano before his image came into view beside Lovino's, placing a hand as tan has Feliciano remembered on his brother's shoulder. The Spaniard smiled, and his eyes were as bright as green stars as he redirected them to Feliciano. "Hola, Feli, it's been a while. How are you doing?"_

_"How do you_ think _he's doing?" Vash snapped from his place further back. Lily's large eyes bore through Feliciano like a shaft of light from her place standing dutifully at her brother's side. "He's in a fucking apocalypse!"_

_"Please don't swear, bruder."_

_"Hello, Feli, dear!" Elizaveta trilled, waving, her white skirts swirling around her. Then she nudged Roderich, who had not given the same greeting. "Roddy, don't be rude. Say hi."_

_Roderich pushed his glasses up his nose with a pianist finger and said sourly, "Guten tag, Italy. Make sure you behave."_

_"Roderich!"_

_There was suddenly a sound Feliciano was met with that he couldn't construe, and then Yekaterina emerged, her breasts giving one more huge bounce before she came to a stop. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, and she clasped both her hands on her ample chest as she said, "Italy, oh you sweet, sweet thing. Please give my brother a message!"_

_"Ja," came another voice, and Natalya shouldered her way to the front, looking more beautiful than ever. "Tell him to get his ass away from that American slut!"_

_"No, Natty," Yekaterina said before turning back to Feliciano. "Please, just tell him from the both of us that we love him—"_

_"He's_ MINE _!"_

_"Nat!" Yekaterina squeaked, shrinking back from her sister's growing dark aura. "Th-that we love him and we wish him the best."_

_Suddenly, Soo came running up out of nowhere, sides heaving. "Ugh!" he exclaimed. "I can't believe Japan claimed China's breasts. Italy~! Has Japan said how they feel? Does he feel them all the—oof!"_

_Kim stared down at Soo, having faceplanted, proving that, yes, there was a floor in this place. "You should not get so excited. You could hurt yourself."_

_"Oh my God, Italy!" Mei squealed. "You are looking so cute~! Oh, and tell Japan that I miss him and hope he does a good job!"_

_"What about China?" Soo asked as he got to his feet, practically foaming at the mouth at the mention of the ancient nation._

_"Oh, right," Mei said as an afterthought. "Him, too." Then she smiled at Chun, who was standing expressionless beside her. "Anything you want to say, Hong Kong?"_

_"Tell the British jerk to—"_

_"Ooh, someone's_ salty~ _! Hello, darling!" Feliks sang as he skipped to the front and blew Feliciano a kiss then proceeded to stretch out and examine his colorless garments. "Oh, I_ hate _these clothes. So_ white _! You didn't, like, happen to bring anything blue, hon? Or maybe a fuchsia…"_

_Toris appeared beside him, hunched over in an air of hopelessness at his friend. "You know that if we do get different clothes we can't bring them back with us, Feliks, right?"_

_"Ah, don't be such a stick in the mud, Liet! Anything you want to say to that Russian asshole? 'Cause there are, like, a_ gagillion _things I could—"_

_Raivis seemed to curl into himself and hissed a 'shh!' "We don't know where he'll end up. If it's here, then he's going to beat us up for an eternity for saying bad things about him!" Toris shivered at that, and Eduard just melted back into the crowd like he didn't exist._

_"Italy, Italy!" Tino shouted, waving his hands. "Hi! Oh, wow, it's been so long, haha!"_

_"And I'm better than ever!" Mathis laughed with a fist pump. "Oh yeah, death is nothing!"_

_Lukas rolled his eyes and said, "Tell them we're fine and just the same as ever." Emil, looking awkward among the large crowd, nodded, even as he tried to wrestle his finger away from Mr. Puffin's snapping beak._

_Berwald, as expressionless as Feliciano remembered, wrapped an arm around Tino and hooked him in an iron embrace to his side. "'nd F'nl'nd 's st'll my w'fe."_

_"Su…" Tino muttered in protest, face flaming up._

_Berwald shrugged. "'t's tr'e."_

_"Hola, Italy," Carlos greeted as he materialized out of the white nothingness. He appeared slimmer than he had been in his later years, as young and lean as his revolutionary days._

_Feliciano, needless to say, was shocked. "C-Cuba?" Damn, Matthew didn't have a bad eye…_

_"Give a message to Mattie for us, will ya?" Sadiq said, smile wide beneath his mask. "Tell 'im that I'm fine—"_

_"_ We're _fine," Carlos corrected with a slightly jealous edge._

_"Yeah, yeah," Sadiq waved a dismissive hand and continued, "Tell 'im that me and ol' dreads here are fine and not to worry about us. And tell 'im that he should never change for anyone." Here his haughty smile softened. "We do love sweets, after all."_

_Heracles rolled his eyes beside him, snuggling a cat whose fur looked to be made of down to his chest. "Right. Pervert."_

_Sadiq smirked. "Sounds like someone's jealous~"_

_Gupta sighed. "Here we go again…"_

_"Oy, Italy!" came a voice, and Feliciano's eyes darted to Jack. The Italian could have lived on the power of the man's beaming smile. "You go on and tell big bro that he's doing a goddamn good job!"_

_"_ Jack _," Sam urged hopelessly. "Don't say that._ He's _listening," he implored, pointing rigidly upward. He shook his head and met Feliciano's eyes with a warm smile of his own. "Send my regards as well. We're getting along splendidly, and he needn't worry about us." Sam's sheep gave a 'baa' of approval, its wool appearing as cottony and pure as a cloud._

_Jack gave a stiff salute. "Good luck, mate. Know you'll kick those bastard's as—"_

_"_ Jack! _"_

_"Ah, leave him be, lad." Feliciano's eye caught a shock of red hair before four sets of green eyes sliced through the white. And then the British brothers and Ireland were standing before him, all tousle-haired and content. Lennox was shaking his head at Jack, a wisp of a smile on his face. "It's a tad too late to change him, seeing as we're dead and all."_

_Bryce nodded to Feliciano, smiling, the similarities between him and his living brother almost uncanny. "Italy."_

_"Tell the git that we miss him," Ian relayed. "Tell him that it's beautiful up here, just like we sang about."_

_"Yeah," Lennox added. "And Sean has all the booze he wants."_

_Sean scoffed. "I_ would _be swimming in it if someone didn't drink it like a camel."_

 _Lennox shrugged and gave a shiteating smile. "What can I say? It's_ heavenly _."_

_Bryce rolled his eyes. "Apart from nurturing old bad habits, we're better than ever. We wish Arthur good luck in his endeavors—"_

_"And we'll kick his skinny arse if he gives up!" Lennox added, then continued in a firmer tone, "Tell him that what happened to us is not his fault and that any of us would've done the same for him."_

_"Send our love, as well," Ian threw in. "And tell him that I'm singing with him with me old squeeze box!"_

_Bryce gave him a shove. "Tch, you're such a lout. Don't tell him that."_

_A few feet away, Marge stood smiling and waving. "Italy, hey! Tell Dad he doesn't need to worry about me and I love him!" Beside her, Ruby, her fur made scarlet against the stark white, gave a sharp bark. Feliciano's eyes followed the hand patting the dog's head, and they trailed upward to meet a face he had never seen. Dark hair, bells intertwined, and piercing blue eyes. She merely nodded in acknowledgement, her gaze dark and rueful._

_They were all there—Monaco, Luxembourg, Mexico, the micro-nations—and they all shouted out their messages, their voices mingling with such sonorous quality as befit a choir._

_Then a woman, so feathery light that she took form as if from a mist, joined the others. She was very pretty, with long curling locks the color of doeskin with equally wide blue doe eyes to match. She wore white just as everyone else did, but her garb was notably different. Layers of pearly material wrapped around her body and she wore laurel in her hair. Feliciano squinted at her, but as much as he racked his brain for answers he couldn't identify her. When she locked eyes with him, recognition immediately washed over her face and her cheeks alit with color. "Hello, Veneziano. I knew your grandfather well."_

_Feliciano knew then, and his jaw dropped. "M-Mama Greece?"_

_Mother Greece nodded and swept her hand out wide. "The very same. We may be long gone, but our spirits still live."_

_"We…?" Feliciano parroted, scrunching up his nose, and it was only then that he noticed all of the human shapes seeping through the stark veil of white. A man with long, wavy brown hair and green eyes. Two more women, one nut brown with amaranth eyes and another milky with wild blonde hair. A man with a silver mane and wet periwinkle irises. A faerie queen with curling wheat locks, vines intertwined, flowers and all. It was true that Feliciano had seen only a few of them and so long ago that he barely remembered, but he had heard their descendents describe them enough to match names with faces._

_Iberia. Mother Egypt and Gallia. Scandinavia or Kievan Rus'. Britannia and more. The Ancients. They were all there and glowing, in their prime. Empires whose legacies were in their childrens' hands._

_Feliciano was so awestruck that he didn't notice the rest of the younger nations turning to white behind the prominent aura of their predecessors. Then they were all standing before him, titans of their time and in death. They all smiled down at him, as if they'd known Feliciano forever._

_"Veneziano."_

_Feliciano tore his eyes away and spun around, his cheeks becoming wet and sticky with the weight of his nostalgia. "G-Grandpa R-Rome."_

_It was. He looked just as Feliciano remembered, all bed-ruffled hair and wide smiles. Germania stood gloomily behind him, but that hardly mattered. Feliciano knew Lovino had told him not to get close, but his legs were already moving before he could think to stop them. And Rome welcomed him with open arms, his infectious laugh ringing in Feliciano's ears as he wrapped the younger in the warmth of his embrace._

_"My little Italia," Rome cooed and held him tight as Feliciano spilled the contents of his tear ducts onto his white robes. "My strong, beautiful boy."_

_A scoff met their ears nearby, and Lovino was standing with his arms crossed. "Che, you forgot 'idiotic.'"_

_"Oh, Roma, don't be that way," Rome chided before sweeping out an arm so fast and strong that Lovino couldn't escape even if he'd tried. He was crushed up against his brother, trapped in a hug so intimate he blushed. Feliciano laughed a little through his tears. Lovino appeared like his vulnerable, younger self. The man's face only grew darker when Rome pressed a kiss to his temple._

_"Ah, my boys. We're all together again, haha." He drew back and playful green eyes met teary amber. "How are you, Feli?"_

_All at once, Feliciano's voice seemed to shrivel. He was so breathless by Rome's presence that at first all he could do was open and close his mouth and stare. When he finally did find his voice, it was barely a whisper. "S-scared."_

_Rome blinked for a moment, as if the emotion mentioned had not affected him in some time and so had lost its meaning. Then he smiled in disbelief and said, "Feli, you are so strong! Why are you scared?"_

_Lovino grumbled something about a 'fucking apocalypse' and Rome being a 'dumbass', but Rome ignored him as Feliciano squeaked, "Strong?"_

_Rome nodded. "Yes, Feliciano, how could you not be? You have the blood of one of the most powerful former empires in the world running through your veins!"_

_Feliciano shook his head. "B-but I-I get scared and I-I run and hide a l-lot—"_

_"Feli, listen to me," Rome instructed, placing both of his large, ironlike hands on his skinny shoulders and leaning in. "Don't listen to what anyone else says and don't doubt yourself. You have so much in you that no one has seen, and when you do show your true colors they won't know what hit them."_

_Feliciano opened his mouth to object, but Rome merely smiled and kissed his forehead. "I love you, okay? Make Nonno proud."_

_"Yeah," Lovino added dryly, slapping Feliciano on the back. "Wouldn't want to ruin your 'perfection.'"_

_Rome laughed and tugged Lovino to him, crushing him to his side. "Now, now, Lovi, you know I love you too. Now let Nonno give you a big kiss. Come here~"_

_Lovino struggled in his grasp, whipping his head from side to side and windmilling his arms until he escaped Rome's hold and pursuing lips. "Che, fat chance, old man!" And he promptly turned on his heel and raced away._

_"You know I will catch you eventually, my little Roma~!" He winked at Feliciano and said, "You're never alone, Feli. I'll be watching," before disappearing into the pulsing whiteness. Feliciano just stood there, staring after them, and the Ancients returned to his attention when they dipped their heads in unison._

_"One is not enough to restore peace," they said in a resounding, collective voice. "The world was not built by just one."_

_Feliciano watched them dip their heads again and depart as one, so in sync were they after centuries spent together in life and in the timeless sanctuary of the afterlife. The white swallowed their forms, and just like that Feliciano was alone. He stood there, looking around for a way out, fearing that he could be stuck, when his eyes settled on a very familiar yet strikingly foreign face._

_"H-Holy Rome?"_

_He was taller and older than Feliciano remembered—he must have grown after he'd left. His eyes did not have the weary dark smudges underneath as they had in life and gone were the features of his youth. But his steely blue eyes did not fail to bore into Feliciano's being, just how they did so very long ago._

_"Holy Rome," Feliciano said, his voice feathery. He blinked at the wetness that was gathering in his eyes. He wanted to run to him, to throw his arms around him and hold him tightly, to tell him that he missed him, but he knew just by the intensity of Holy Rome's gaze that such contact would shatter the fragility of their reunion._

_"Stars belong in the sky," Holy Rome informed, and his voice sounded so mature that Feliciano held his breath just to take in all that he had missed while the man was still alive. "You can hold them up. Together."_

_Feliciano was trying to figure out what the cryptic message meant when his whole body was shunted backward, away from the purity of the untoucable world and Holy Rome's blue eyes, screaming as the light faded to a pinprick in the unfathomable distance. A coldness swept over him, and all of his worries and regrets and fears returned with the impact of his fall._

"Falling stars." The words rushed out with the air forced from his lungs, and a moment later his eyelids snapped open and he was staring at the wrinkled pattern of his sleeping bag. It took his brain a full minute to register that he needed to breathe, and then he gulped oxygen down, his body tingling as if he'd been flying through a windstorm. His mind was spinning and when it finally stopped and everything that had happened came together, Feliciano sat bolt upright, going lightheaded for half a minute before he gathered his voice and shouted, "Guys!"

They all came running, so breathless did he sound. Ludwig was at his side in half a minute, eyes darting over him, confirming that he was well.

"Feli—" he began, but Feliciano promptly launched into a hurried and excited relay of his dream.

Everyone listened, and at first their expressions were skeptical, but with every mention of a dead nation Feliciano had seen or heard their faces became softer, disbelieving. They wanted to think that Feliciano's dream hadn't just been a dream—that he had actually communicated with the dead nations and that the messages he delivered were genuine, an extension of those lost to them. The dead nations' sudden visit to Feliciano came so unexpectedly at a time when they truly didn't know if what they were doing would make or break them, that their emotions returned to them full force, having laid dormant for so long that they practically flooded their systems. It was ridiculous now to submit to such petty and hindering activities such as crying, but there they were, not as strong as they'd thought, scrubbing furiously at their stinging eyes and sniffling miserably at their misfortune. None of them would admit that they would rather be the ones sending messages of encouragement than the ones being gradually crushed by the increasing weight on their shoulders, but now they had reason to bear that weight. There were others that wanted them to succeed. They weren't alone, just apart from those still supporting them. They weren't doing this for nothing, and they hadn't realized how much they'd needed that clarified until Feliciano finished his story.

Silence pervaded the room for a few minutes; their throats were too raw to pass words. Ludwig crouched beside Feliciano, trying his best to focus on the dipping creases in the Italian's sleeping bag instead of Gilbert, who he so desperately wanted to see. He ground the heel of his palm into his most irritated eye, but doing so only spread the wetness that had gathered there.

"Holy Rome said something about us holding up the stars?" he inquired, alarmed at his gravelly voice.

Feliciano nodded. "Si. Falling stars."

Ludwig snapped his head up to meet Feliciano's gaze which had become startled with the rapidity of the movement. " _Falling_ stars?" He had heard that before…

Somehow, hearing Ludwig say it made Feliciano shiver and immediately regret his reply. He wanted to open up to Ludwig about the ominous whispers he'd been hearing of late, but something told him that doing so would put the German's life in jeopardy, and after losing his brother he didn't think he could handle Ludwig's death. "He said we have to do it together," he quickly deflected, but he could still see the silent brooding in Ludwig's eyes.

"It is late," Yao observed with a glance to his watch and a wet clearing of his throat. "12:57. We should sleep."

"Where's Red?" Alfred asked no one in particular. "You think she's working overtime?"

His answer came in the form of Andre, who had been leaning against the door frame for far longer than they had known. "She should be here shortly. I think Shawn said she was kept overtime for some meeting."

"I'm sure she'll be fine," Arthur said, wanting more than anything to retreat to his sleeping bag and away from the fact that he was one breath away from breaking down. He hadn't let anyone see him like that before and for good reason, and he was determined to have it remain that way. "Yao's right. We should get some rest or we'll be dead on our feet."

 _We already are,_ Francis thought, observing the now perpetual smudges beneath Arthur's eyes, the unfocused nature of his gaze, the slump in his otherwise strictly-postured shoulders. He exited the room with Arthur and barely noticed the others settling down around them. He was too consumed with watching the Briton tug off his shirt like it weighed a thousand pounds to pay them much mind.

When they finally did settle down as well, Francis laced his fingers with equally weak ones. "They're safe, cher. Up there."

Arthur's eyes stung and his throat felt like it was closing up in his effort to swallow his grief. "Shut it, frog." He held tight to the fingers weaved with his own and buried his face in Francis's neck. Francis pretended he didn't feel wetness there.

* * *

Translations:

Nonno-Grandpa

A Word From the Writer: Aw, so sad. *tear* Anyway, thought I should just include other nations since I kinda haven't this whole time. Yup, here's the confirmation. They're all dead, but, hey, a visit! I just threw the Ancients in there as well. Now, something I want to clear up about Scandinavia/Kievan Rus': he was first Scandinavia and _then_ he moved south and became Kievan Rus' (that means he is the Nordics' daddy as well as Russia's... they're distant relatives, ftw!). I got my information from r-ninja on DeviantART, so... yeah, if you're confused or anything go there. She wrote up all the stuff you need to know about the Ancients.

And _I know_ I previously wrote Scotland with an accent, but it seemed kind of silly to me to lump him and his brothers in with all the other nations and write them with an accent and not everyone else. That and I'm lazy. So... oh, look, Sean! Wtf, happened to you? *hahakindaforgothimcough* (Ireland, btw. No, I refuse to write Sean as a female. Sorry, but... the more Hetalia boys the better for me. And I kinda have this one desire to see all of the brothers together... having angsty, bitchy sex. Hehe... my mind lives in the gutter, don't judge me!).

Anyway, Holy Rome! I wrote him all grown up... and apparently very nice looking. Did I mention my mind lives in the gutter? XD


	102. Decay

**The clock is ticking!  
**

Warning: Angst, some GerIta, suspicious activities, Nichu fluff and innuendo

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

" _Striking through the thought of his dear ones was a sound which he could neither ignore nor understand, a sharp, distinct, metallic percussion like the stroke of a blacksmith's hammer upon the anvil… Its recurrence was regular, but as slow as the tolling of a death knell. He awaited each stroke with impatience and—he knew not why—apprehension. The intervals of silence grew progressively longer, the delays became maddening. With their greater infrequency the sounds increased in strength and sharpness. They hurt his ear like the thrust of a knife; he feared he would shriek. What he heard was the ticking of his watch."_

—Ambrose Bierce, _An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge_

**Decay**

"They're getting warm."

Ludwig lifted his tired gaze from his coffee and oatmeal (it and soup were practically the only things that could be smuggled into the bunker) to Red, who was finishing up another cigarette. The whole place smelled like one all day long, but Red seemed not to notice. She was sitting back in her chair (as she had verified that it was _her_ chair and her chair only), a black-clad elbow propped up on the foldable table leading up to equally black fingers between which her smoke was cradled. She seemed to be examining the water stains on the wall, wrinkling her nose at them even as she addressed a completely different issue.

"The Board. That's why I was asked to stay so long last night."

Ludwig perked up immediately and set his spoon down. He wasn't that hungry anyway. Hadn't been since they'd gotten to the bunker. "Ja? What did they say?"

"Well, they talked a ton of shit like they usually do," Red continued. "Then they launched into this whole topic handed down to them by the Overlord about that disturbance on the border of the district yesterday and the disappearance of those two guards at Gate 11." She stubbed out her cigarette with bottled aggression and looked at him then. "They also mentioned that they'd found canoes pulled up along the shoreline close to the gate and they had just taken in those three dead guys that had agreed to scout with me the day I found you."

Ludwig chewed on his tongue for a moment, contemplating if he should ask for further information. He hadn't gotten much sleep at all of late, and knowing the Organization may be onto them sooner than he would have liked would definitely prevent any slumber whatsoever until everything was said and done. He weighed his options and decided that his paranoia would prevail either way at this point. "What did you do?"

"Oh, for sure I tried to make it seem like I didn't know about this and was shocked at the suspicious activities going on, even suggesting stuff I could do to secure the perimeter more. But it couldn't take away from the fact that I was on that scouting mission and I had supposedly chased someone from Bethesda to somewhere near Gate 11, after which those guards disappeared, and I came up with no one.

"They began to interrogate me, though it was sort of offhandedly, as if they were trying to weasel information out of me without me noticing. But I knew. The Board is never discreet. I answered everything they asked me; told them that there _had_ been someone I'd pursued from Bethesda to where those mines went off near Gate 11, that the hat those two guys found who came after hearing those mines blow up belonged to the person I had been chasing, that I had no idea why the canoes were there and I hadn't paid much attention to them as I was too busy chasing the guy, that when I'd entered Gate 11 the guards were there, that I assumed the rest of my scouting group made it back to their squads later in the evening and I hadn't bothered to check because I had to tend to my own squad, being a captain.

"It was a bunch of excuses all haphazardly strung together, but I was hoping because of my supposed young age they would let me off. I wouldn't care if I was demoted, which was the worst thing I had been expecting them to do. But then they joked about how that might not cut it for the Overlord—how he might call me in and ask me to take my mask off. And everyone who's affiliated with the Organization knows that when the Overlord requests your presence you won't be coming back."

Ludwig met her gaze, knowing by now he couldn't hide the worry that swelled within his own eyes. "What do you plan to do?"

The overly loud _screeee_ as Red pushed her chair back and stood could have pierced the German's eardrums. She pushed a loose strand of red hair back behind her ears. Her eyes remained on the floor, and Ludwig knew enough about himself to realize that Red was refusing to look at him for the fact that her concern might be multiplied when met with his own. "We move the date up for the coup. I know the Overlord knows about you and perhaps me. It isn't the fact that he knows something is coming, it's that he's choosing to bide his time until… when? That's the question. For all we know, he could send people to storm this bunker at any second if he wanted. If he knew there was a bunker."

"So, he doesn't know about this place?"

"I said _if_ ," Red corrected and tapped her middle and index fingers on the table, _taptap, taptap, taptap_. "Either way, he _knows_ and if we don't get this underway soon he may just smoke us out before killing us off like a bunch of chickens on an assembly line."

Ludwig drew patterns in his oatmeal with his spoon. "How soon?"

Red did look at him then, and he noted the poorly-smothered angst in her gaze. "Tomorrow. We make our move tomorrow, during the morning drill. You know what has to be done. We're as ready as we're ever going to be. Might as well not forestall the bloodbath." She pulled another cigarette from a pack in the pocket of her Organization-assigned black vest and balanced the smoke between her chewed lips. "I'm goin' out. Tell the other's for me, will ya?" And she disappeared down the hallway, a plume of smoke stretching out after her.

Ludwig's heart felt like it had stopped beating, and he could have sworn he'd felt his soul drift from his body for a second before settling back down inside with a sickening churn of reality. This was _real_. This was _happening._ Soon they would be victorious or food for the rats, though he supposed everyone was food for everything morbid and loathsome eventually.

Ludwig peered down into his oatmeal and imagined maggots writhing in the bowl. _"Eat me! Eat me!"_ they screeched. _"Eat me, and then I'll eat you."_

He gave a disgusted huff and pushed his bowl away, having lost his appetite. It took him several minutes to convince himself to stand and tell the others—time that could have been put to better use, he ruefully surmised.

So much for getting any sleep.

* * *

After they were told they might die in little more than a day's time, that marked the end of all conversation between them. They each found a little space that no one else dared to invade and just remained there. Arthur's eyes were constantly drawn to his watch, his heart matching the ticking of the second hand as it made its way across the face. He fancied he could hear his heartbeat growing louder and louder with each revolution, and he was eventually forced to yank the damned thing from his wrist. He threw it across the room with a defiant grunt, dashing it against the opposite wall. The throw wasn't hard enough to break it, weak as he was.

 _How are we ever going to do this?_ Arthur wondered as he sat back on his knees, hands planted on the ground, hunched and staring. He supposed an adrenaline rush would be ideal, but how far could adrenaline go… how long would the coup be? Weeks, months, _years_?

It was afternoon, Arthur's watch said from its place on the floor, and no one had moved. Except for Ludwig. He broke the rule of entering someone else's space, but Feliciano seemed not to notice. In fact, he seemed not to notice anything at all.

"Feli?" Ludwig ventured, his own voice unnaturally loud to his ears. The Italian was sitting on his sleeping bag, a spot he had taken to for most of their time in the bunker, staring at the far wall. As Ludwig got closer, he realized the man was muttering to himself.

He sat down beside him. "Feli?"

"… fall soon. They're going to fall soon. We can't let the stars fall. No room, too much…"

Ludwig's heart clenched immediately and his arms shot out before his brain could register what was happening, latching onto Feliciano's shoulders and shaking with all his might. "Feli, stop this. What's wrong? Why do you keep saying this?"

But Feliciano's gaze was glassy and unblinking as he continued, "Must hold them up, si. Hold them up or else they'll fall down. And there's no room—the bloody head…"

Ludwig gave Feliciano one more vigorous shake. " _What_ head, verdammt?"

Feliciano turned his head to him then, and Ludwig felt all the blood in his veins turn to ice. It seemed like Feliciano was looking _through_ him. "The bloody head. It's so close, so _close_. It will come with the falling stars, and it will ruin us all."

Ludwig felt disgusted with himself as his instincts flared and he snatched his hands back from Feliciano like he was something to be abhorred. He wanted to touch Feliciano to make sure the man was okay, but his hands refused to move from his own lap. He had never heard Feliciano speak with such authority. He had honestly thought the man hadn't had it in him. "Feli?" was all he could say.

It was a good thing no one was in the room, else Ludwig would have had to share this experience with another. He was worried and knew it may be advisable to inform the others of Feliciano's ramblings, but he didn't want the Italian to be traumatized by the attention. Instead, he forced one of his hands to rest on the man's shoulder, shivering as he made contact. Feliciano's skin was frigid.

"Feliciano, please, I don't know what to do." It was hard for Ludwig to admit, but there it was, on the table before a man who didn't even seem to realize he was being addressed. The way Feliciano's body was pulled like a chord reminded him of Arthur's demonic possession, and his fingers dug into the Italian's bony shoulder. "Feli, what is this? There's someone talking to you, ja? Someone's telling you to say this." He knew it was true. Feliciano was far too frivolous to make such statements. He took both of Feliciano's shoulders then and shook them. "Who is it, Feli? Tell me who it is!"

Feliciano opened and closed his mouth, but nothing came out. He eventually blinked, amber eyes regaining their enthusiastic hue, and when he saw Ludwig staring at him, holding him, tears pushed their way to the surface.

"Feli?"

"S-si," Feliciano replied before sniffling, flickering eyelids sending moisture rolling down his cheeks. "I… it happened again, didn't it, Luddy?"

Ludwig continued to stare for a moment more, taking in the stark realization in the Italian's wide, wet eyes before pulling him into a firm embrace. It was only then that Feliciano felt secure enough to let go with his emotions, burying his face in Ludwig's shoulder and weeping quietly.

"I-I don't know w-why this is happening," Feliciano told him through miserable hiccups. "The whispers. The w-whispers h-hurt…"

Ludwig's hand extended down Feliciano's shuddering back, stroking. "How do they hurt, Feli?"

He could feel the wetness of Feliciano's tears soaking into his skin. " _Hurts_ …" It came out as a sob, and Feliciano truly couldn't describe what it felt like when the whispers manifested. It didn't hurt in a physical way—it overwhelmed his mind, stabbing his psyche, pounding at his eardrums over and over. He didn't know what it was or how to make it stop, but something in his gut told him that once everything was over, he would be free. Although the meaning of 'over' could be construed as either winning or dying. Maybe both.

Ludwig held him tighter now, let him cry out the hurt. "How often have you heard these voices, Feli?"

It took a full minute for Feliciano to respond, but Ludwig didn't press. Feliciano seemed to be done with crying now, exhausted from the experience, resting his cheek against Ludwig's shoulder with his arms hanging limp by his sides. "They… they used to come once every day. Now I hear them every few hours. And they're always saying the same thing. I don't understand, Luddy." He shivered again. "I'm cold."

Ludwig held Feliciano for a moment more before pulling back and brushing a few strands of loose hair out of the Italian's teary, puffy face. "You need to sleep."

Feliciano didn't protest; he watched Ludwig turn down his sleeping bag, arrange the pancake-like pillows assigned by the Organization, and then he took Feliciano by the hand, leading him over to the cot. Feliciano gladly slipped in, not even bothering to remove his heavy clothing, and Ludwig tucked him in—something Feliciano regarded as an anomaly, and he couldn't convince his eyes to divert.

"Wait," Feliciano called as Ludwig turned to leave. The man moved to look at him again, and Feliciano's arms were extended, his eyes begging. "Please," he urged. "I'm really cold."

Ludwig couldn't keep a bit of color from rising to his cheeks at what Feliciano's words implied, and he cast a cautious glance to the door. Then he sighed and shrugged off his coat and stepped out of his pants. He figured if he was going to lay with Feliciano, he might as well be comfortable.

Feliciano lifted the flap of the sleeping bag to welcome him in, and the Italian was practically attached to him before he could properly settle in. But Ludwig couldn't bring himself to be annoyed, especially not when Feliciano snuggled in close, head tucked under Ludwig's chin, warm breath on his chest. "I love you, Luddy."

Ludwig felt his chest constrict, and suddenly he didn't care if someone saw them anymore. He wrapped an arm around Feliciano and said, "I love you too, Feli."

Another few minutes, and Feliciano was out like a light.

* * *

Everyone had more or less heard Feliciano crying, but no one had wanted to intervene so as to grant Feliciano his privacy. Everyone needed some time to themselves. It could be the only time they had left.

Since they were confined to the bunker, there really wasn't much they could do in regards to preparation for the coup. That was up to Red, and the girl still hadn't returned from her smoke break above ground.

Yao didn't want to admit that he was worried, but the tension was eating at his nerves so much he feared he would be unable to move when the time came to begin. All of the blank stares he saw didn't help, and he eventually took to the bathroom—the one without the shower and the tub—and sat down on the toilet seat lid. He usually had ways of dealing with stress, but with all that had been going on he had forgotten them all. So he just sat there and picked at the skin on his lips with his teeth, pulling off layer after delicate layer until he felt several drops of blood splash warmly over the back of his hand.

"You're bleeding."

Yao snapped his head up to see Kiku, ever stealthily quiet, standing before him. Although his expression seldom changed, his eyes were locked on the flowing blood with a kind of morbid curiosity—as if he had never seen such a thing before then. His dark eyes traveled back up to Yao's, and the Chinaman gathered enough sense to tear some toilet paper off from the roll sitting on the tank and press it to his self-inflicted wound.

"Your lips," Kiku continued, forgetting where he was going with his words and just staring as Yao stared back. _They were so soft._ But now they were torn and chapped and ruined; just like everything else in the world. Kiku would never say it, but Yao was gradually turning into the old man that he was. His round face was slowly hollowing, the wrinkles on the man's forehead were constant now, and he fancied he could see a few gray hairs among the dark locks. But it didn't matter. As far as Kiku was concerned, they all looked like shit. Somehow the crinkly little silver hairs only made him realize how much he loved Yao, how much he cared about his well-being. He walked over and knelt down beside Yao, taking hold of the older man's frail wrist and pulling it away, revealing the ravages of his lower lip.

"You should not hurt yourself like this," Kiku told him rather motherly.

Yao glanced away, embarrassed. "I didn't mean to."

Kiku lifted Yao's hand, bringing it close and examining the splotches of blood that covered it. _I never want to see your skin like this,_ Kiku thought but couldn't bring himself to say it. _Stained with death._ Instead, Kiku continued, "You're worried."

Yao scoffed bitterly. "Tell me who is not."

Kiku couldn't argue with that, so he just sat down on the grimy floor, not even bothering to pay mind to the unhygienic position, holding Yao's hand. He wished he'd done it before. Yao had tried to hold his hand on so many occasions, and only now did Kiku realize how secure he felt with the contact.

"Yao-chan?"

"Shì, yīnghuā?"

Kiku's heart fluttered at the name, and he didn't know quite what the make of it. He cleared his throat. "Have you ever seen Kinkaku-ji?"

Yao nodded, still holding the thin wad of toilet paper to his lip and his stare at the wall. "Yes. It was very peaceful."

"We have never visited it together," Kiku said. "Maybe when all of this is over, we can go see it. If they haven't already burned it down."

Yao glanced at him then, and the devious spark in his eyes took a moment for Kiku to process. "Kiku, that temple is where monks used to worship. We can't _misbehave_ in there."

Kiku's mind was blank for a few seconds (which was certainly new to him), but when he finally caught on he had the grace to blush. "Th-that was not what I was suggesting!"

Yao chuckled. "No, yīnghuā, I know you not mean it. You just look so kawaii when you blush."

Kiku looked away, embarrassed, but he squeezed the hand in his own back. No more words passed between them and their hand-holding offered no tension to Kiku. They just sat there and stared and stared at the hard gray wall until Yao thought he would become completely colorblind.

But Kiku's mind was somewhere else. He was standing on the temple's golden veranda with Yao by his side, and the man's hair was down, tumbled over his shoulders with the sunlight turning it glossy. He looked so young—no long face, no wrinkles, no gray hair, anything. The same Yao that had first visited him when he was younger, and now Kiku had no place in his heart to even consider pushing him away. They held hands, and everything was warm and bright and peaceful. They could live there forever, if fortune favored them well.

In his daydream, Yao tugged at his hand, and Kiku glanced over. He saw Yao's smile and that glint was back in his eyes again. The man was pulling him toward the center of the temple. Kiku promptly switched off the vision, but not before all the blood had rushed to his face and perhaps some more taking a detour, inevitably, further south.

* * *

No translations (because they're the same ones, dammit!)

A Word From the Writer: Annnnd, we end with more Nichu. I'm really trying to milk this for all it's worth, people. It's just so damn cute, I wjashdjhjshf. So, yes, I got impatient and moved the date up for the coup. And we have GerIta fluffiness and sad stuff. Simply adorkable. I just like to torture Feliciano. I dunno, he seems to have not gotten picked on by me enough throughout the fic, and now I'm making up for it by breaking his head with WTF-ness.

Can you believe I wrote that excerpt from Bierce down _last year_? Yeah, last year when I was only a few chapters into this fic. I'm too into this, I swear. X3

Btw, the reason why I'm posting early is because I'll be super busy today. So... I had to kick myself in the ass and get this posted for ya. Next post will have a little surprise in it and was one of my favorite chapters to write. I know I said I don't do favoritism but... yeah, I couldn't help it. So much angsty goodness... Anyway, later!


	103. Heartbeat

**Feels, feels everywhere!  
**

Warning: Lemon, fluff, oral, a little confrontation, tension, RusAme, some fluffy FrUK, and mention of past FrUS.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Heartbeat**

They didn't know what time it was nor did they want to. They had their usual meal of mush and gristle the Organization failed to notice was missing from their rations before reporting straight to bed. They all knew sleep was impossible, but that didn't keep them from trying.

Ivan was restless. He lay in his sleeping bag at the foot of Alfred's empty cot and brooded. He supposed it was his bladder bothering him, but when he found himself standing before the toilet (having barely perceived his walk from the room and across the hall), nothing came out, and he was just as soon zipping up and heading back to the dismal room where all the others were equally as troubled. He entered and was generally ignored by everyone; Francis leaning against the wall on his cot with Arthur lying down with his nose to the wall beside him; Matthew keeping tune with the tension with every tap of his anxious fingers. Ivan decided that the room was so oppressive, trapping all the angst within himself every moment he lingered there. No one spared him so much as a glance as he bent to roll up his sleeping bag and grab his pancake of a pillow, intent upon wandering the small bunker until he could find a little corner—any little corner—in which he could find a sliver of peace.

He made his way back out into the hallway to begin his search, but something made him stop. Alfred's voice was floating to him from the cramped meeting room. Ivan made his way over, curious as to why only Alfred saw it fit to speak when everyone else was agonizing in silence, and saw Alfred sitting in a chair at the table, making conversation with Shawn. He knew Alfred had seen him, that much was clear by the strands of his hair swishing as if he had just turned his head after detecting his presence. But Ivan refused to leave; something was off, and he knew it by the way Alfred's tone suddenly became more casual, as he forced a smile to pull at his chapped lips, as Alfred's hand, once resting on the table, made its way up to rest on Shawn's shoulder.

Ivan had had enough. Something snapped in him, as it almost always did, and before he knew it he had stormed into the room, snatched up the wrist of the hand still resting with promise on Shawn's shoulder, and without a word wrenched Alfred out of the room, down the hall, and into the shower room.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Alfred threw at him as Ivan promptly locked the door. The Russian didn't answer as he pitched his sleeping bag and pillow to the floor in a haphazard heap before giving Alfred a rough shove. Alfred let out a startled yelp and flailed feebly, but he fell on his ass anyway and was soon on his back as Ivan loomed over him, shaking and dagger-eyed with rage.

"Why did I think you could be any different?" Ivan asked through his teeth. "A pig is too stubborn to change. I should have known."

Alfred blinked up at him, for once truly frightened. Ivan appeared fit to tear off one of his limbs. "I-I don't know what you mean," he said in a small voice.

Ivan smiled at this—a wicked, derisive wall of teeth the likes of which Alfred hadn't seen since their competitive years. "You know," the man replied, fingers traveling up to Alfred's mussed hair and digging his nails into the scalp as he snatched up a clump. "Oh, _you know_."

Alfred's eyes went wide and he writhed, his voice lost to him as Ivan leaned in and continued, "You would go so far as to whore yourself out to a stranger just to prove that you've moved on?" Ivan scoffed and yanked his fingers from Alfred's hair, letting the man's head drop back to the hard floor, flooding Alfred's vision with blooming black spots. "You disgust me, _pig_."

"I have nothing to say to you," Alfred flashed back bravely, despite his trembling hands. "We're done, and I can do what I want. Now get _off_ of me."

But Ivan didn't get off; instead he snatched Alfred up by the collar. "You saw me walk in, you saw me watching. You are so fucking bent on hurting me, da? Just like you always have been. I bet you _love_ hurting people."

Alfred gagged a bit and his eyes darted elsewhere, unable to meet such an accusing gaze. "I-I don't. You're doing this to yourself, Ivan. You're hurt because you can't have me and because I don't want you."

Ivan felt a peculiar but not altogether unfamiliar pressure behind his eyes, and he countered by saying, "Then look at me and tell me you don't want me. Tell me after all the shit that's happened, after that _kiss_ , that just seeing me makes you sick."

Alfred's resolve had been gradually waning since words had first left his own mouth, but now it was being torn down into a tumbling heap. He took his lower lip between his teeth and chewed through the peeling skin, trying as much as he could to rid himself of the feel of Ivan's own lips pressed to it. He sucked on it, drawing the blood into his mouth and hoping the taste of it would be enough to put him off.

But it didn't come close. A minute after Ivan had spoken, Alfred turned his head, took in the eyes that appeared as conflicted as Alfred felt, and said, "I can't. You know I can't."

Ivan stared for a moment, as if expecting to hear something more, before letting Alfred go, glancing away, and shaking his head. "This lust between us has been fed too much to be considered as anything else but what it is." He lifted his eyes to Alfred's own once again, empty. "Go and let him fuck you. That's all you ever had the ability to possess, da? Lust?"

Alfred took a deep breath and sighed. "No, that's not what I meant."

"You lied to me," Ivan accused scathingly, as if Alfred hadn't even spoken. The confliction was gone, and the anger was back, renewed and thriving. "What else should I have expected? You have always lied. Why did I ever think words could ring as meaningful in your thick skull? You call me cold. Tell me what else I did but chase you and what else you did but keep running away."

Alfred could see that Ivan's exasperation and hurt were swallowing his rage. Alfred couldn't look away; it was something Ivan had never shown him before. Was this what he went through every time Alfred had passed up his advances? And then his quivering hands were at either side of Ivan's passion-flushed face, words lost to him for a few breathless moments as Ivan's eyes flickered with hope and desperation. "I didn't lie, Ivan," Alfred assured, his voice feathery and refusing to return to normal. "Not about that. There are many shitty things I would do to you to hurt you, but I would never lie about loving you. Because that's not a lie."

_I can't get close. I promised myself that._

Alfred couldn't hear Ivan breathing after that; the man was completely silent, just staring. It was almost disturbing. After about half a minute, Alfred thought that Ivan might turn blue and keel over. He honestly didn't know what to do. It was obvious that Ivan was jealous, and that surely was a sign that he wanted Alfred (possibly a possessive tendency, not exactly _love_ , now that he thought about it), and the man seemed so unstable that he was afraid to disrupt him in any way. So he just sat there on his knees, hands glued to Ivan's face, hoping the man didn't hear the thundering of his heart.

_If I do, your death will kill me. There will be nothing left of me._

Then Ivan took a deep breath and said, his voice more childishly innocent and heartbroken than Alfred had ever heard it, "Stop lying to me, please."

Now Alfred was the one who was exasperated. He let his hands fall from Ivan's face. "I'm not lying. Ivan," Alfred continued tentatively, finding Ivan's hands and holding them, effectively grounding Alfred in his anxiety and lost sense of direction. "I… I know I've lied to you about so many things before, and you've lied to me. But _please_ believe me when I tell you, I…" Alfred swallowed. His tongue felt like a dry sponge in his mouth; it couldn't soak up any words. He reorganized his sentence and went on, "I'm in love with you, Ivan. I have been for a long time, and I'm sorry for ignoring it. I've just… um, I-I've never really been in love with anyone else before, certainly not with a rival, and I didn't know what to do. I thought too much about what other people might think…" Alfred paused to take a breath and his mind screamed at him to glance away, to hide his embarrassment at the confession, but he couldn't bring himself to, not when Ivan was staring at him with eyes so wide and uncharacteristically wet. "Please believe me," Alfred managed, worried that Ivan might break, in which case he wouldn't know what to do.

_But I want you. I need you with me._

Seconds ticked by, and Alfred counted his rapid heartbeats, tried to ignore how hot his face felt. Ivan, he found, was starting to redden as well, and the Russian abruptly catching Alfred's face in his hands and kissing him full on the mouth expressed the reason why.

Alfred's mind madly backpedaled, but he remained frozen in place as Ivan's lips moved against his own, and he never knew lips could be so beseeching. He knew he shouldn't be nurturing what, for all intents and purposes, was an addiction, but he also knew that if he pulled away now he may never be able to do this again. Alfred's head was a mess of simultaneously exploding firecrackers, thoughts flying every which way, leaving his body to run on autopilot, digging his fingers into the fabric of Ivan's coat and pulling him and his hungry mouth down onto the rumpled sleeping bag.

_Stay with me, please. Stay with me like I once stayed with you. Remember?_

It was a struggle to part ways with Alfred's mouth, especially when the man started reciprocating with equal fervor, but Ivan managed to free his lower lip of Alfred's teeth before pulling back and taking in the unbelievable sight below him. Fuck, this was really happening. Alfred had never looked so sincere, laying there with his hair fanned out, face gaunt and weary just as everyone else's, but eyes wide and pleading, as if he feared Ivan may leave him like that and never come back. Ivan didn't need Alfred's hand against his cheek nor his lips forming a breathless "Please," to return to his earlier ministrations.

It was a good thing that Ivan had locked the door, Alfred thought, as he felt overly gentle hands roll his shirt upward. He whined as he was forced to detach himself briefly to tug the garment over his head, seizing Ivan's mouth again even before he could toss it away. Ivan was slow and surprisingly soft but lengthy, and Alfred quickly found himself becoming dizzy with lack of oxygen. It was only when Alfred thought he would absolutely pass out that he finally broke the kiss off, gasping for breath, doing so even louder as Ivan moved to his side to circle his tongue behind Alfred's earlobe, trailing the tip of it in a hot line down Alfred's neck, rolling over his bobbing Adam's apple, flicking at his collarbone, arriving at his nipples and testing the already pert nubs with light, wet touches that made Alfred squirm.

 _Even if we just have this moment. I don't care._ I don't.

"Ivan," he moaned as the Russian tugged on the nipple with his teeth before engulfing it with his mouth. Alfred's fingers threaded through Ivan's ash blond hair, nails digging in as Ivan sealed his lips over the nub with suction, back arching as the man finished and moved onto the next.

_God, how many more moments could have been had?_

Ivan passed a thumb over a slick nipple, sore from sucking, kissing his way down past Alfred's quivering belly to arrive at his belly button, and he plunged his tongue in. His hands worked at Alfred's pants, the zipper loud to his eager ears as he slipped the material off. Alfred's hips jerked, and he spread his legs further as Ivan licked a hot stripe up the junction of Alfred's thigh and hip. He moved closer still, leaving warm, teasing puffs of breath at the start of Alfred's honey blond thatch, nose-tip ghosting over flushed skin. "Please," Alfred begged. He was writhing, urging Ivan lower, fingers tugging off-silver hair insistently. Ivan complied, hands taking hold of Alfred's twitching hips and regarding the man's cock, already dripping and purpling. Ivan hadn't sucked anyone off in a while, but he didn't particularly care about that fact as he took Alfred's cock into his hand and ran his tongue from base to tip. Alfred had to snatch a hand back from Ivan's head to cover his mouth, silencing a loud moan. Encouraged, Ivan licked him again, this time lingering on the leaking head long enough to taste the fresh precum that dribbled from it. "Oh, fuck, _please_ ," Alfred moaned, almost forgetting to check his voice as Ivan finally took him into his mouth. Alfred raised himself on his elbows enough to peer down and see Ivan peering equally up at him, his mouth stuffed with half of Alfred's cock. "Fuck," Alfred groaned, shuddering, Ivan pulling off to swirl his tongue around the crown before swallowing him again, further this time. Alfred threw his head back and couldn't stop his hips from rolling just once. "Oh _God_."

Ivan never did like giving blowjobs, but the way Alfred was moaning and writhing for him made him choke himself on Alfred's cock just to prolong it. He continued to suckle, and his fingers traveled to Alfred's balls, rubbing them with the pad of his thumb. "Ivan—a-ah, no, I-I c-can't—"

_We could have had everything. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Ivan. I'm a dumbass, and I don't deserve you._

Ivan pulled off with a wet _pop_ of saliva to kiss up the side, wrapping a hand around the shaft and fisting it at an almost painful pace. He glanced up just in time to see Alfred's head fall back, a moan escaping his lips as his cock swelled up and he came, hips rolling and cum flying up to the younger's chest. Ivan licked up what escaped down the sides of Alfred's cock before he sat up, wiping off the cum that had gotten on the corners of his mouth and cheek. He hoisted Alfred's legs up by the backs of his knees, crooking them and spreading them to accommodate his form. He bent to ghost his lips up one of Alfred's inner thighs, the muscles still shuddering in post-orgasmic bliss, and placed a kiss there, watching Alfred come down from his high.

He didn't need to ask. He need only wait for Alfred's hooded eyes and lingering whine to give permission, and Ivan groped for the little bottles lined up on the floor next to the tub, choosing one with barely a glance and popping open the cap. He paused, barely remembering to divest himself of his own clothing, nearly sending the buttons flying as he yanked open his coat, pulled his shirt over his head, and hurriedly shucked off his own pants and underwear, shoes and socks. Alfred whined anew, his eyes following Ivan's hand as it grabbed up the bottle again and received a generous dollop of the cheap shampoo, transferring its slickness to his erect cock.

Alfred shifted beneath him, unable to keep still or completely silent. He was burning from the inside out and wasn't sure he could keep his sanity if he couldn't feel Ivan's skin against his own. His skin burned where Ivan's hands touched it, and he wanted Ivan to be close, to be _inside_ , where he could feel the man's pulse rushing along with his own. Ivan scooped Alfred's rear up with both hands and guided himself in.

"Ivaaaan~" Alfred's head went back, spine curving inward and hands clutching at the puffy material of the sleeping bag he was laying on. It was doused in Ivan's scent, and Alfred could drown in it even as it was setting his blood on fire.

Entry was perhaps the easiest that Ivan had ever experienced; Alfred's heat swallowed him up, and soon he was completely submerged, relishing how the soft insides squeezed around him, urging him to move. Instead he remained still, wanting the moment of initial reunification to last for as long as he could make it. He brought himself down on his elbows, hovering over Alfred and taking in his face. He threaded his fingers through Alfred's outgrown hair and captured his lips, not offering his tongue as he usually did. Alfred opened his mouth, tried to welcome Ivan inside, but Ivan was determined to show Alfred what he had been trying to show him for centuries. Ivan worked at Alfred's lips, sucking and licking until they were swollen and a ripe red. It wasn't until Alfred grabbed his face and effectively smashed his mouth down onto his own that Ivan surrendered his tongue and Alfred gladly sucked on it.

_Thank you for loving me anyway. Thank you for needing me. All those years wondering when I'd have my chance to need someone, and they were standing right in front of me the whole time._

Ivan was forced to come up for air when he felt Alfred clamp around him. "Бог," he moaned breathlessly into Alfred's ear, feeling the man shiver beneath him. He settled his nose behind the curve of Alfred's ear and took in his scent. Ivan brushed his lips across the tender shell of skin. Alfred's arms came up and around him, digging his fingers into Ivan's hair, holding him. "Бог, ты прекрасна, Fredka."

" _Fuck,_ Ivan~" Alfred had thought that the term 'melting' was just some cheesy rumor circulated by infatuated girls to be giggled stupidly over, but _God_ if Alfred wasn't anything but melting now. He hadn't heard Ivan call him that for a long time, not since they'd first met when Alfred was young and stupid and Ivan was young and troubled. He remembered the day so clearly now like he'd never remembered it before—how Ivan was so tall and imposing, how Alfred had admired him, how traveled he'd seemed, how when Alfred had heard he loved sunflowers he had given him pots of them in hopes of procuring his allegiance. Instead, he had received a look so foreign to him, a blush he'd thought so out of place, that he hadn't known what it was. Only now did he realize it was the beginnings of a long, one-sided adoration.

_I gave you fucking sunflowers when you really wanted me._

"Ivan, please," Alfred begged, crossing his ankles tightly over Ivan's lower back. "Again, _please_."

Ivan's lips made their way down Alfred's neck, his response punctuated by a slow, deep thrust that had Alfred scrabbling at his back with his nails. He knew exactly what Alfred wanted. "Я тоже тебя люблю, Fredka." He continued to whisper the name lovingly against the quivering skin, sucking at a soft patch of it. Alfred was so warm, always warm, and sunny in a way that had Ivan wondering whether to be envious or admiring. He secretly wished, sometimes, that he could be like Alfred in such a way. But if he couldn't achieve that, he could at least _have_ Alfred, thrive off of him. "Я тебя очень люблю."

Alfred squirmed and pushed his hips down on Ivan's cock, which was stationary in his ass. "Please, Ivan, I-I need…"

"I know what you need, моя любовь," Ivan muttered as he swirled his tongue over the purpling lovebite he'd created, pulling out and thrusting back in.

"A-ahh." Alfred tugged Ivan harshly up by his hair. "K-kiss me, dammit."

Ivan complied wholeheartedly, his brain turning to mush at the feel of Alfred clinging to him like he was some kind of lifeline. What he would have given to have felt Alfred hold him like that before. He dipped his tongue into Alfred's mouth, pursuing and stroking the other's gently, surprised when Alfred responded just as softly. This was new territory for the both of them, and neither wanted to destroy the fragility of it.

There was a point at which they could no longer kiss for want of breath, and Ivan decided to make up for it with his thrusts. Alfred moaned aloud, hardly caring who heard, and raked red trails down Ivan's milk-white back. Ivan lost his coherency and had just enough sense to lace his fingers with Alfred's own before pumping in and out of him consistently. Alfred's hand held his like a vice, as if afraid he might float away if not anchored. Everything was hazy and hot and _right_. Ivan's breath puffed against his face, eyes holding Alfred's own, barely blinking, not wanting to miss a moment. Alfred leaned up to pepper the Russian's flushed cheeks with messy kisses, throwing his head back once again as his prostate was struck. Ivan smiled. Alfred was so dramatic, even during sex, though it appeared as if he couldn't help it. It was sort of cute. He moved down to flick his tongue across Alfred's racing pulse, giving him open-mouthed kisses along the side of his neck.

"Ivan, yes," Alfred moaned, hips rolling into Ivan's onslaught. His own cock was sore with neglect, near to bursting. "Please, please—m-my cock, oh God, Ivan." He clutched Ivan tightly, afraid to let go to tend to himself.

"Fredka, говоришь, что любишь меня. Мой Fredka," Ivan groaned feverishly as he stretched a clumsy hand between them to stroke Alfred's straining cock.

_Please, I want to hear that name for just a little longer._

Alfred was writhing, and he feared he was opening the skin on Ivan's back, but the worry was merely a flit of concern in the back of his mind swallowed by the mounting wave of his orgasm. "Vanya, o- _oh_ ~" A few strokes of Ivan's hand, and Alfred was finished; he pinned Ivan's hips to him, his own twitching along with his insides. "Vanyaaaa~!" Heat incarnate flooded out of his cock, spraying onto his chest and stomach to join the sweat and the cum already there in a blissful mess. His muscles gave out, but not once did he allow himself to let go of Ivan; his legs remained firmly locked around his body, his arm looped around his neck, his hand held bracingly in Ivan's own.

_I'd give anything, anything…_

It was hard for Ivan to keep himself from crushing Alfred with his weight; he was shuddering so much it was hard to even thrust. In the end, he buried his face into Alfred's shoulder and ground into him. "Мой F-Fredka…" he gasped, stilling as he filled Alfred up before his limbs finally gave out and he collapsed onto his lover.

_No, everything. Because you gave everything to me. Everything, and now I can't even breathe without it, you cunning commie bastard. You've trapped me, and how can I say no?_

Ivan was bulky to be sure, but Alfred didn't want him to move, didn't even want to talk. He was content just by feeling their heartbeats sync up, Ivan's heaving chest pushing back against his own, the man's tired breaths against his neck. He curled his fingers into Ivan's hair, holding the man's head to his sweaty chest, and stared up at the ceiling, panting, surprised to find it a bit blurry. His glasses had fallen off sometime during their lovemaking (or had it been before?), and he hadn't even noticed.

Ivan shifted. He pressed a kiss to the hickey he'd made, and Alfred shivered. He pulled out and Alfred inhaled sharply, the Russian managing to roll off of him and grab for a towel. He'd reluctantly removed his hand from Alfred's grasp, but now he wrapped an arm around and underneath the man's head, pulling him close and cleaning up the mess they'd made while his other hand traced the delicate joints of each of Alfred's fingers.

"Mmm." Alfred turned his head to rest his cheek against Ivan's chest, watching Ivan draw the thin towel over his soiled skin, his softening cock. When Ivan's hand dipped lower, Alfred gladly let his legs fall apart so that he could be properly cleaned. Ivan's towel-covered fingers slid into Alfred's crease, rubbing over his raw, leaking hole. Alfred moaned, and Ivan couldn't resist wriggling one of his fingers free from the towel to press at the slick oriface, wanting to plunge it in when he felt it twitch against him, instead choosing to venture higher, to trace over the tender place between Alfred's hole and his balls, rubbing and pressing and making Alfred mewl.

Ivan drew his hand back when Alfred rolled on top of him, smothering his lips with his own before Ivan could so much as grunt in surprise. "Mm, please, more," Alfred said as he abandoned Ivan's mouth to trail kisses down his neck.

Ivan jerked away. "P-please do not touch there."

Alfred blinked at him, appearing a bit hurt. "Why?"

Ivan glanced away, color rising to his cheeks. "Um, i-it's… it's my, um, I do not want to get hard…"

He looked back to see Alfred smiling in disbelief. "You got one too? An erogenous zone?"

"Da. I suppose."

"Here," Alfred said, taking Ivan's hand and guiding it up to his head. "I _love_ when my hair is touched. Especially Nantucket. I could come just from feeling it played with."

Ivan took his hand back and wrinkled his nose in confusion. "Your _hair_?"

Alfred rolled his eyes and ground down against him, making Ivan expel a startled moan. "Let's do it again. _Please_?"

Ivan shook his head, hardly able to keep a smile from quirking his lips. "Nyet, Fredka, I do not want you to be too sore to walk."

Alfred pouted. "But—"

"Alfred," Ivan warned sternly.

Alfred huffed, and Ivan suddenly gave a laugh. "We are virgins."

"Uh… what?"

"Love virgins," Ivan expanded, kissing Alfred on the cheek and taking his hand again, stroking the knuckles thoughtfully with his thumb. "We have never loved anyone else before, da? This is our first~"

Alfred shrugged. "Hunh, I guess so." Then he wrinkled his nose. "Jeez, I feel behind."

"Three-hundred years behind," Ivan replied and kissed Alfred's other cheek. "I love you."

Ivan was rewarded with fingers stroking through his hair, twirling a strand around one of the slender digits. "Well, since you _did_ pop my metaphorical cherry…"

" _Fredka_ ," Ivan pouted. He didn't want to think about the fact that Alfred might have been with everyone else but him until just recently. It made his heart do funny things.

"I guess I love you too." And he pecked Ivan on the lips. His own felt sore as hell.

Silence stretched on for a minute or so, and Ivan had been studying yet another winding crack in the wall when his eyes returned to Alfred to find the man watching him. "What?"

Alfred broke out into a goofy smile. "You're really cute."

Ivan was taken aback. "What," was his unimpressed deadpan.

"You look sorta like a doll." Alfred pinched Ivan's cheek. "Hehe, chubby cheeks and big round eyes. Except for your nose."

Ivan frowned and demanded, "What about my nose?" He was kind of self-conscious about it. It really did take over his whole face…

"Nothing," Alfred assured. "Just that I wouldn't change it if I could. I wouldn't be able to tell if it was you without it." He kissed the tip of it. "I love it. It's beautiful, just like the rest of you."

Ivan was in the middle of blushing and wondering exactly how he could respond to such a compliment (he'd actually received a _compliment_ ), when Alfred shook his head and laughed, "Look at me, being all corny and shit. Sound like a fucking chick—whoa!"

Ivan had rolled them onto their sides, clutching Alfred to him, nuzzling his head and guiding both their bodies into the sleeping bag. Alfred squirmed against him.

"H-hey, I was—"

"Shh. Do not speak."

"Why not?"

"I am just…" Ivan smiled into Alfred's hair, nose buried within, "really happy right now."

Alfred brushed his lips against Ivan's chest, propping his head comfortably beneath his chin. He grew drowsy listening to the steady beating of Ivan's heart. He drifted, Ivan still holding him tight, not caring that they were falling asleep on the floor of a shower room nor that everyone in the whole bunker must have heard them going at it; he just hoped that Ivan's heart would only flutter this way for him and him alone.

_I hope you're happy, russki, 'cause for once I can't escape. I don't ever want to this time. You've caught me. I'm yours._

* * *

Arthur couldn't sleep. Francis was giggling almost manically into his ear.

"Honhonhonhon~"

"Would you shut up already?" Arthur ground out. They were laying in their cot, bundled in their ratty sleeping bag, and as much as all sense of comfort had been lost to Arthur, he felt it was his obligation to get at least _some_ sleep. Although that was growing ever more and more unlikely, with the way Francis's fingers were thrumming against his stomach, as if itching to reenact what they had just overheard.

"Honhon, I think they are finished," Francis reported.

"Yeah, I can hear that."

Francis silently pondered for a moment. "Alfred has finally submitted."

"How do you know that?"

"His voice," Francis replied simply. "Usually I provoke all of my lovers to make those kinds of noises, but whenever I slept with Alfred, he never made those kinds of—"

Arthur stiffened, horrified. "Another word and I'll rip your balls off and use them for target practice."

Francis nearly jumped away from him. "I-I-I w-was only-ly—"

"Stop sputtering and start sleeping, frog."

Silence followed for a few moments before Francis pulled back close to Arthur and nuzzled his nose into the man's neck. "Je t'aime, tu sais. Seulement toi."

Arthur tried to ignore the odd movement his heart made from hearing the words. "Mmh."

"Have you submitted as well, cher?"

Arthur could feel Francis smiling into his skin, and he scoffed. "I never submit. I _conquer_."

"For once I am glad to have been conquered," Francis muttered before kissing his lover's shoulder. "Merci, for helping me with my… memories."

Arthur was grateful his back was to Francis; a smile was stretched across his face, a sappy, loving one he would rather die before letting anyone see. "Yeah, yeah. You're welcome, love." His hand trailed down to where Francis's was wrapped snugly around his middle, his fingers sliding between those of his partner's as smoothly as reconnecting puzzle pieces.

* * *

Translations:

Бог, ты прекрасна-God, you're beautiful

Я тоже тебя люблю-I love you too

Я тебя очень люблю-I love you very much

моя любовь--my love

говоришь, что любишь меня. Мой Fredka-say you love me. My Fredka

Je t'aime, tu sais. Seulement toi--I love you, you know. Only you.

A Word From the Writer: Okay, so I don't get myself. I _loathe_ all that romantic shit, but then I write this. Guess Hetalia is exempt from that. Anyway, yeah, they got back together but that was only expected right? It was so cute, and I just had to add the little pet name. By far one of the fluffiest things I've written. Russia was a little softie, hehe. Do you think America gets it now or what? He'd be an asshole to back out now, but, seeing as I'm the writer, that won't be happening. Then you got the little passive-aggressive/fluffy FrUK at the end. And of course France has screwed pretty much everyone and likes to brag about it. England has been particularly cruel with his threats to France's balls lately... but hey if it all works out it'll be considered spousal abuse, am I right? X3

*Another note, online translators are sketchy, so if anything doesn't make sense be sure to hit me up.

So... I kind of got overzealous with the lemon here. I always like a little lemon before my violence (coughignorethebadtimingcoughcough) It continues~!


	104. Joined

**It's finally happening!  
**

Warning: Lemon, fluff, GerIta, and Nichu.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Joined**

He was pulled out of his slumber only when Feliciano moved against him. Ludwig's eyes fluttered reluctantly open, peering down to see the Italian burrowing his face into his chest. He smiled and kissed the bed-mussed head, extending an arm around Feliciano to hold him clos—

Ludwig almost snatched his hand back when he felt bare skin against his palm. It took him a little while to gather that Feliciano may have become overheated sometime during their rest and had somehow cast off his shirt without Ludwig noticing the movement. The thought worried and aroused him at once, and again he felt overwhelmingly filthy for associating Feliciano with anything remotely sexual. Of course, that only made his cock swell even more.

He placed his hand tentatively on Feliciano's curving back, the appendage venturing lower of its own accord. It kept going, fingers outstretched, searching for a waistband, lower and lower and lower and—

 _My God_ , Ludwig thought as he was met with the start of Feliciano's crease. Feliciano was _completely_ naked. How the fuck was this happening? If this was a dream, there would definitely be a mess in the sleeping bag when he woke up. Just the thought of digging his fingers into the flesh of Feliciano's plush ass…

Then someone mumbled across the room and turned over, and Ludwig realized that this couldn't be a dream. Yao and Kiku were sleeping together in the other cot pushed up against the opposite wall, and they _definitely_ wouldn't be here if this was a fabrication of his subconscious.

And altogether he knew he couldn't do what he wanted, not with Yao and Kiku dozing away in the dark— _Dark_ , Ludwig thought as he lifted his arm to squint at his watch through the gloom. He and Feliciano had slept for the whole day, and Ludwig felt like it had been no more than five minutes, his muscles aching as if he had been lying stiff as a board the whole time. It was past 10 in the evening, and he wasn't sure if he would be able to go back to sleep with the temptation of Feliciano's ass gnawing at his resolve.

Ludwig nearly jumped when Feliciano shifted again, dislodging his head from Ludwig's chest and tipping it upward. Ludwig studied his placid, vulnerable face, and before he could truly admire it and commit it to memory, one of Feliciano's eyelids slid open and the Italian broke into a smile.

"Ve, your hand is warm~" Feliciano said, and Ludwig only knew he was referring to the hand that was near his ass when the Italian adjusted the position of his hips. He made to snatch his hand back, but Feliciano's snaked out weakly after it, taking it by the wrist and guiding it back to its place. "No, please. I like it there."

Ludwig blushed and he began to sputter damningly before Feliciano pushed his hand further down. Unsure, Ludwig's eyes darted downward only to be met with hooded amber counterparts. "Feel. I don't mind."

Part of Ludwig's mind was screaming that this was so out of character for Feliciano, enough to be suspicious of, but the other urged his fingers to squeeze what he was offered, and he did so, disbelieving.

"Mmmf." It took a few seconds for Ludwig to figure out that the aroused sound had come from Feliciano, and once again his wrist was taken up, guided over a jutting hip, pushed down, down…

Feliciano blinked slowly up at him, and Ludwig could have just rolled them over right then and had his way if it weren't for the shock pulsing through him. "You can touch this too," Feliciano informed as Ludwig's fingers brushed something hot, velvety, and hard. _Not_ Feli's cock, Ludwig told himself, his face utterly on fire. It was only then that he came to the conclusion that he really couldn't fathom Feliciano possessing something so masculine, so dirty. Feliciano seemed to sense his trepidation, and as encouragement the Italian trailed his lips up Ludwig's broad jaw. "I won't be able to sleep, Luddy. Please?"

Ludwig was beside himself, barely grasping Feliciano's engorged cock, much to the younger's displeasure. "You… you want me to, um… s-stroke you, ja?" Fuck, it felt weird just _asking_ Feliciano that question…

Feliciano didn't bat an eye. "No." Ludwig was confused, but only for a second; until Feliciano wrapped his fingers around the other's thick shaft, already far harder than it should have rightfully been.

Ludwig made a startled noise in his throat he didn't even know was manageable. "F-Feli, was?"

"I want _this_ ," Feliciano conveyed as he gave Ludwig's cock a squeeze. A fairly and unexpectedly _good_ squeeze. Ludwig couldn't keep a moan from escaping him.

"Feli," he whispered, terribly conflicted. _Your hands shouldn't be touching there,_ he mused even as Feliciano began to pump him. _They shouldn't know how to… oh God…_

Feliciano was becoming frustrated with Ludwig; it was so obvious in his face. Feliciano was becoming frustrated with _him_. This was a night chock full of firsts, and Ludwig vaguely wondered if he'd be able to take them all in without being completely paralyzed with astonishment. "Please," Feliciano begged, eyes round and teary. "Please, I want to do this with you before we die."

Ludwig shook his head and released Feliciano's cock completely, opting instead to hold him. "Feli, you shouldn't feel obligated to do this," he murmured, because he couldn't tell Feliciano that they wouldn't die. That was still very much undetermined.

Feliciano whined and squirmed in his grasp, grabbing Ludwig's hand and tugging it downward again. "Per favore, per favore," he pleaded, peppering kisses along Ludwig's jaw, down his neck. "I want you. I'm tired of waiting."

Ludwig cocked an eyebrow, strangely numb with confusion amid Feliciano's handjob and teasing mouth. "You… what?" He couldn't have heard right.

Feliciano was close to crying in exasperation. Ever since that first night they'd spent together in the same sleeping bag, he had been ready for Ludwig to take him. Now he was desperate, wanting to bare his all to Ludwig and wanting to see Ludwig as only ever those this close to him could. He wanted to show Ludwig in every way he could manage just how much he loved him.

Feliciano relinquished his hold on Ludwig's cock, wrapping both arms around the other man's neck and pulling him in for a kiss. Ludwig was so shocked that, for a moment, he was completely still, not even breathing.

"Luddy, per favore, make love to me." Feliciano thrust his tongue into Ludwig's mouth as the wall of teeth gave way, poking around, shy and inexperienced but eager. When the German finally did respond, he was flipping them over, mapping out Feliciano's mouth with aggressive strokes of his tongue. He pulled back, catching his breath and taking in the flushed, demure face and unusual but stirring hooded eyes, glazed with want. _No one should look this fuckable._

And then finding answers to Feliciano's out of character behavior didn't matter to Ludwig. His mind was suddenly clear of everything but a burning desire to fulfill Feliciano's demand. His body reacted of its own accord, extending a hand to cup the side of Feliciano's head, fingers combing through soft hair. His lips met Feliciano's once more, the Italian's unmistakably chewed with angst but still pillowy enough to remind Ludwig that, yes, he was kissing Feliciano and Feliciano had just asked him to sleep with him.

In a way, Ludwig felt like he was floating, merely a spectator to the events unfolding, because they weren't real, they _couldn't_ be real. Not after centuries of lusting and loving and pursuing in silence.

Ludwig's fingers traced over Feliciano's skin, fair and still soft even after all those weeks in the freezing cold and through numerous conflicts. He closed his eyes, determined to commit every dip and curve to his memory. When he felt another pair of hands drift down his chest, he opened his eyes once again to see Feliciano staring up at him, eyes dark with desire. His small hands—delicate, Ludwig surmised—made a slow trail up to his collarbone, across his shoulders, coming to rest at the base of his neck, curling the hair at the back of Ludwig's head thoughtfully around the slender digits.

"Luddy," Feliciano breathed, and that was all Ludwig needed to hear.

Feliciano held tight to him as he was offered the German's fingers and eagerly took them into his mouth, wetting them thoroughly. They both knew saliva wouldn't be the most accommodating to their pleasure, but they couldn't stop, wouldn't stop. If they did, the dream might end and reality would crush, just like it always had, all that they wanted and cared for.

Ludwig pulled his fingers from Feliciano's mouth, claiming it with his own as he wormed his hand down between their heated bodies and gently massaged one finger through the tight ring of muscle. Feliciano gasped and cringed, clutching Ludwig by the shoulders, and the German gladly returned the embrace twofold as he managed to submerge his finger completely within Feliciano's warm, constricting channel.

Ludwig pressed his nose into Feliciano's messy locks and waited. He listened to the Italian's heavy breathing, his racing pulse—all there for him. Feliciano tightened around him and squirmed. "Feli…"

"Another," Feliciano urged, pushing his hips down. "Please."

Placing a kiss on Feliciano's temple, Ludwig complied, wriggling another finger inside. Feliciano bit his lip and screwed his eyes shut, giving a soft, pained grunt.

"Keep going?" Ludwig whispered, the second finger almost halfway in now. Feliciano nodded against him, and Ludwig provided him with a third.

It was arduous, Feliciano's muscles clamping defiantly around the invading digits, but as eager as they both were they knew it was necessary. Ludwig didn't want to hurt Feliciano. He wished he could keep everything from hurting the man, but that was an impossible goal. He could, however, make Feliciano forget, make them both forget, and banish the pain that had been plaguing them if only for a moment.

Feliciano whimpered as the fingers began to plunge in and out of him. Ludwig tried to pull back, tried to assess Feliciano's condition, but Feliciano gripped the man like a vice against him. He didn't want Ludwig to stop when he saw the flushed face scrunched up in discomfort Feliciano was surely sporting. He was _fine_ , he kept telling himself, despite the fingers stretching him to the point of pain. _I'm more than fine, because Ludwig is with me. He's doing this to me._

And if he quit now, even so much as parted ways with just an inch of Ludwig's skin, the Italian didn't know if he could keep breathing. He needed to know this was happening, that it wasn't just some cruel dream. If he let go, he might lose this moment forever.

The thoughts only stirred his impatience, and Feliciano turned his head, ensconcing his nose in Ludwig's unkempt hair. "Enough," he insisted. "I'm ready."

He did allow Ludwig to pull away from him this time, but only just. The German stared down at him with a look he so rarely possessed that it took Feliciano some time to realize that the expression was concern stemmed from lack of guidance. Feliciano offered him a small, reassuring smile and nodded for him to continue.

Ludwig spit in his hand and took hold of his cock, chewing his tongue. Feliciano looked so pure and innocent and fragile. If he ruined that…

He felt a hand cover his own where it was braced against the cot, and he once again met Feliciano's eyes. "I'm ready," Feliciano repeated. "Do it."

Ludwig leaned down, meaning to comfort Feliciano with kiss as he worked the head of his cock into him, but the act was really to relieve his own apprehension. It was late, and in only a few hours they would be standing on the threshold of oblivion, struggling not to be pushed over. He couldn't afford to hurt Feliciano, but at the same time he didn't want to disappoint him. He conveyed his confliction with his mouth, interspersing greedy strokes of his tongue with soft, slow flicks.

Feliciano was grateful for the distraction, though he couldn't keep a whimper from making its way up his throat. The penetration was excruciating, and they both knew it, but Feliciano kept his arms wrapped around Ludwig's shoulders, determined to see this through no matter what. He would have Ludwig know how much he needed him before the chance was gone, perhaps forever.

When Ludwig was seated all the way inside he broke their kiss, guilty that Feliciano's insides clamping around him in discomfort felt good on his cock. "I'm sorry."

Feliciano welcomed Ludwig back into his arms and held them so that their chests melded together, their heartbeats feeding off of each other, perpetuating and palpitating as one. "Move, Luddy."

Ludwig was hesitant, but when he felt Feliciano's warm breath against him, felt his fingers curl into his skin, he pulled out—cautiously. Feliciano gasped when he gave an equally sluggish but deep thrust back inside. Another thrust, and Feliciano's hips slanting upward against his own was enough for him to set a steady pace.

"O-oh, L-Luddy," Feliciano moaned softly against his ear. The man's eyes were screwed shut, and his heavy breaths stirred Ludwig's hair. The German shivered. Feliciano felt so warm and soft inside, gripping him almost possessively. He was contemplating an advance of speed when Feliciano suddenly arched and keened. Alarmed, Ludwig immediately stalled.

"Feli?" He withdrew from Feliciano's neck, heat rolling through him with the sight of the Italian's newly flushed body, his hooded eyes, his mouth, pink and parted in a withering attempt at a beg, clearly too aroused to form words.

"Th-there," Feliciano was finally able to say. His nails bore into Ludwig's skin, and he brought his legs up to envelop the German's slim hips, rolling his own against him. "Luddy, p-please, I can take it. Please just— _oh_!"

Ludwig moaned along with Feliciano as he began to plunge his cock in and out of the Italian's warm cavern at a hurried pace; he hadn't felt anything so pleasurable for a long time, and he doubted he would be able to last long enough to satisfy Feliciano properly. He made up for it in kisses and touches, bestowed wherever he could reach: lips to eager lips, lips to cheek, jaw, neck, shoulder, fingers to nipples and below.

Words were lost to Feliciano. He was full with Ludwig, and he could feel the man's essence spreading, like those warm, tingle-inducing touches, seeping through him, evanescing into a heat that rushed through his veins. Ludwig was here and _his_ and no one could touch them.

Feliciano's gasp as his nipples were plucked sent shivers rolling through Ludwig. All that time waiting and wondering if Feliciano wanted him just as much, if he could even _make_ those kinds of noises, confirmed in a desperate bid for sexual release, but it felt like so much more to them. They were in a creaky cot in a bunker below their enemies who might destroy them the following morning and they were going about their first encounter so hastily, but it didn't matter. What did was that _they_ could decide, _they_ could control, _they_ were so starved for each other that every brush of skin felt like jolts of thunder rolling through them, shaking them to the core and leaving room for blinding lightning in the form of starbursts erupting behind their eyes with every stroke, tease, and breath.

Because this was one thing no one could ever take away.

"Feli, ich brauche dich." Ludwig's voice was barely a whisper, afraid that someone may hear his fears and make them real. He buried his nose in Feliciano's warm, goose-pimpled skin, kissing every inch, every millimeter, wanting all of Feliciano imprinted with his affection. "Bitte, nicht verlassen. Nie."

Feliciano had never held anyone so tightly. He feared his arms would never move from their place wrapped around Ludwig, and he wasn't sure if he wanted them to. He could already feel the ache in his ass building, but the overdue pleasure, Ludwig's presence, eliminated whatever worry he had. All words were lost to him, all except Ludwig's name. He moaned it over and over, forced out of him by the German's hard, deliberate thrusts to Feliciano's oversensitive sweet spot and his hand stretched between them, stroking him in rhythm.

Another thrust, and Ludwig felt Feliciano tense beneath him, his insides constricting around him near to pain, nails digging into his shoulders. The German detached his mouth from Feliciano's neck, red with sucking kisses and gentle nips, pressing them to the other man's, drinking up his withering moan as he came between them and over Ludwig's teasing fingers. The Italian was so breathless and shaky, he was unable to reciprocate, letting Ludwig suck, lick, and bite as he pleased, all the while puffing out aroused little keens in between one-sided kisses as the German continued to push his cock into him.

Feliciano's eyes were swimming with a mixture of pain, pleasure, and an outflow of emotion, and he couldn't stop hiccuping between each moan. If he died right now, he doubted he would care. Because he would do so in Ludwig's arms, knowing he was loved more than he ever had been, and that was all that seemed to matter.

Ludwig moved away from Feliciano's lips, unable to concentrate on two things at once so deep into his pleasure. He trailed his lips along Feliciano's jaw, coming to rest at his ear, hot, heavy breaths puffing against it, making Feliciano shiver and gasp. The German continued to rut into the man beneath him until everything in him tightened, sending a spike of pain from sore muscles and old wounds through his body, but just a moment later he was coming, and he forgot everything. Below him, Feliciano gave one last shudder and managed to breathe, "Germany," before all that could be heard were heavy pants.

But concern flashed through Ludwig, and he had barely recovered before he was raising himself on trembling arms and staring down at Feliciano, whose head was stretched back, eyes closed in blissful exhaustion. "Feli?"

Feliciano opened one eye barely a sliver, smiling softly at the sight of the flushed, sweaty, tousle-haired German who appeared more vulnerable than he'd ever seen him. "Si?"

"Were you, um…" Ludwig passed a tongue over his lips and continued meekly, somewhat guiltily, "a virgin?"

Feliciano opened his other eye and his smile twitched just a bit. "Wasn't everyone once?"

Ludwig blinked at him, perplexed. He'd never thought the Italian had the capacity to answer in the form of a rhetorical question. "Well, ja, but—"

Feliciano finally relented, amused at Ludwig's endearing confusion. "No, I wasn't. It has been a while, but before this I…" He paused as he saw Ludwig cringe at the mention of past trysts. "Are you angry?"

 _Well, that explains a lot._ Ludwig quickly gathered himself and banished the expression from his face. Truthfully, he was jealous; he had wanted Feliciano for a very long time, and during that time the man might have been sleeping around. Feliciano had even said, when Ludwig had confessed his affections, that he had _known_. Had he been sleeping with others during that time as well?

And even considering all these speculations, Ludwig had not the heart to be angry with Feliciano. The man had a right to do what he wanted, and Feliciano's wide, anxious eyes as he awaited Ludwig's answer were enough for him to know that all those past lovers did not matter. "No, I… just, you felt, um…" he trailed off before catching himself, "ja, and I was afraid I had hurt you." He fixed Feliciano with a beseeching gaze then. "Are you?"

Feliciano stared at him for a few moments, blinking, his face not offering any answer. And then Feliciano held out his arms, drawing Ludwig in and kissing him on the ear. "Far from it." It was a lie according to his sore body, but as attributed to his mind it was strikingly true. _He's so sweet. I always knew he was sweet._ "Ti amo, Luddy." _I had no reason to wait. I'm lucky he was willing to._

Ludwig's arms tightened around the man beneath him. The man that was finally and truly _his_. "Ich liebe dich, Feli."

And across the room, in the cot against the far wall, Yao's hand found its way to Kiku's growing hardness. He smirked into the younger's hair. They had heard everything.

Kiku flinched, face erupting in a bloom of red in the dark. His hand shot down to fumble at Yao's wrist. "Y-Yao-ch-chan…"

Yao pressed his lips to Kiku's forehead, amused. "You are so kawaii, Kiku."

His hand wrapped around Kiku's need, and the latter buried his face into Yao's chest to smother his moans. Here, with Yao in the dark, he was not judged, and for once he ceased to care about what the man might think of him. As the past couple of months could attest, Yao loved him wholly, and that was enough for him to kick aside the last brick of his isolating mental wall. He felt naked, exposed, but Yao made up for it, cloaking him in the warmth of his affection, promising him so much with so little. He had never felt so unashamed.

* * *

Translations:

ich brauche dich-I need you

Bitte, nicht verlassen. Nie-Please, don't leave. Never.

A Word From the Writer: D'aww, at last, right? 'Bout time there was some GerIta, but that was the point. I was saving that adorkable little tidbit for the end. Why? Well, they're kinda the 'it' couple in Hetalia, come on. Not to discriminate against the other couples, but considering Hetalia is named after Italy...

And Italy is not a virgin because, well... that would kinda suck to be limping during a coup.

All right, so all the lemon is through. I'm sad to say that there won't be anymore in this fic, but that's just because it's almost the end. Now, now, that's no excuse for you to quit reading! Gotta know who makes it and lives (almost) happily ever after, right? (Except for Canada. I feel bad that I could only really give him one lemon in which he was involved, but I'm writing lemon with him in it now, so... I guess that makes up for it?). But don't worry! Because I haven't been writing so much lemon with this fic, I've been making a ton of unfinished one-shots and other naughty little things I plan to post (one of my favorites involves tentacles... yes, and not just with _one_ nation, oh no).

On another note, this is literally the _last_ finished chapter, so I better get to writing! Until next time! :D


	105. Precipice

**Almost... there...  
**

Warning: Angst, smoking, chewing tobacco, references to RusAme lemon, and some fluffy FrUK and RusAme.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

  
**Precipice**   


_12:00._

Andre woke them. Red had gone out on another smoke break, but everyone knew it was more than that. They all reluctantly left their cots, sleep heavy on their eyes and their minds drowsy despite the rapid beating of their hearts.

Andre directed them to the meeting room, and they crammed themselves inside. They were so close to each other that they could practically feel the racing pulses of those pressed against them. They were all scared, and no one could deny it.

"This is it," Andre echoed what they were all thinking. "We've alerted Red's squad to prepare. We need to as well, but we have to stay down here until we receive the summons to the morning gathering at six. All those with injuries should speak now so they can be treated. As soon as Red returns, we will go back over 'Checkmate' and clear up any confusion. Don't be ashamed to ask any questions. We don't want anything to go wrong because of lack of knowledge. Afterward, we will prepare everyone for immersion into Organization ranks. Any questions as of now?"

As apprehensive as they all were about this whole thing, the only question they wanted to have answered was 'Are we all going to make it?' So they just shook their heads and stayed silent.

Andre nodded back, hands clasped behind him. "All right then. The countdown has officially begun. We're in for the long haul.

"No pressure."

* * *

_12:30._

_No pressure._

Arthur could feel apprehension pushing at the back of his eyes, crawling up his throat and threatening with despairing sobs or hysterical laughter. _No pressure._ He swallowed and felt as if a rock had hit the base of his stomach, weighing him down and stirring up his bowels. He'd done this before, he kept telling himself, so many times in the past. But the mortality of it all was what had him standing over the sink in the bathroom, having locked himself away in what he soon reflected was an act of cowardice—but he _would not_ allow himself to submit to hysterics in front of everyone. He was simply… composing himself for the sake of his group. That was right…

Right?

But how could he?

His fears manifested in his hands. The burning had ceased to be sure, but they were still stiff, skin a ruddy shade and thick with scarring. He flexed them, wincing as he felt the healing burns stretch and contract. How could he hold a weapon, defend himself, sort through the destruction yet to come with such useless and yet overwhelmingly essential appendages?

And the rest of him looked as if he should be rolled into a grave rather than preparing for war. Pale, gaunt, eyes hollow and dark-smudged beneath, weathered, frazzled, _not ready_. No one was ready, but out of them all he felt the most compromised and all at once he hated that his body could betray him by submitting to the effects of his troubled mental state.

Usually, at times like this, he paced, but he doubted the strength of his legs. Francis had offered (almost insisted) that he be allowed to tend to Arthur's hands, but Arthur didn't want anyone to see how hurt he was, how _incapable_. In his haste to remove himself from the eyes looking to him, he had neglected to lock the door, and he knew that Francis had been standing behind him, observing him with what was surely a worried gaze, for most of his anxious ritual.

"Stop watching me like that." Arthur sniffed and pulled the new bandages on his hand tighter, hoping that the pain it caused would divert his attention from the murderous elephant in the room, or rather in the system of sewer tunnels above them. He flexed his hand, the ointment given to him courtesy of the squad numbing the discomfort that came with the movement. But that didn't change the fact that he was still injured. "I hate when you _stare_. What is it?" he nearly snapped. _Do you want something from me as well?_

He could feel Francis's presence close behind him, and he continued to pull at the bandages, pulling, pulling, pulling until the pain was crippling, because he deserved it for being so weak, for losing control of himself when he _knew better_ —

"Mon chou," Francis murmured, arms coming around Arthur's front, seizing the Briton's wrist and gently urging the fingers to release the gauze they were holding so tightly to.

Arthur twisted and jerked, hand itching to snatch at the gauze again. It had been enough that Francis had been watching him, but now he was taking away his only source of distraction? " _Let go_ of me, fucking sod! You have no right… I need… I n-need to—"

But Francis held his flailing arms like a vice, pulling him around so that he could wrap his own arms around him, allow Arthur to hide his face in Francis's shoulder and let go himself. Those hands, so useless and weak and punishing, dug fingers into the back of Francis's sweater, holding tighter than they ever had. His eyes stung, and he hated how it reminded him of the stinging in his hands—of the _weakness—_ but it was so much more different, like with every quivering breath and sticky roll of moisture down his cheek he felt lighter, and he vaguely wondered if before everything bad had happened in the world he had been walking on air and never known until then.

"When this is over," Francis said quietly as Arthur's despairing hiccups subsided. The Frenchman's hand cupped the back of Arthur's head, another wrapped around his waist, rocking them gently back and forth. "I want you to keep your promise." He needn't say it; they both knew what it was. That little slip of the tongue after their bath together, the embrace that confirmed the answer. Francis clutched Arthur more tightly to him, lips pressed into his hair. "And I will promise to make you as happy as I can manage."

Arthur let out a breath he didn't know he had been holding, muscles limp after so many hours of being stiff with anxiety. He refilled his lungs with a shudder and realized how ridiculous he was being, how this all was… but for once he didn't care. "I will," he assured, and he found that before he hadn't been so sure himself about his answer, but now he knew he wanted this, that it wasn't just something said in the heat of the moment, on the edge of everything. And now that he had said it with the strongest note of truth in him, he knew that it also came with another, underlying promise. Being with Francis meant he had to survive whatever was coming, but it was also a promise to everyone else who relied on him, and, most importantly, to himself. He wouldn't have anyone saying, years from now, that the former empire, who had once held the world in the palm of his hand, had been wiped from the earth, swallowed by mere human dissidents as if he were still some inexperienced child clinging to his mother's skirts and crying whenever one of his brothers pushed him around. He still had his power, and he would have this Overlord acknowledge it.

He drew back as Francis let up on him a little, and even though the man was smiling his blue eyes were bleary as they regarded him. "Then you will be _very_ happy, cher. And these," he took up Arthur's hands and lovingly wrapped the bandages properly, "will not stop you. As I recall, it was your voice that made you powerful."

Arthur felt heat unbidden rise to his cheeks and he scoffed, snatching his hands away. "Kiss-arse. Always kissing arse throughout history, stupid frog."

Francis arched an eyebrow and a genuine smirk pulled at his lips for the first time in weeks. "I see. So this was why I could never have you. You failed to recognize flirting."

Arthur was scandalized. "I-I know what flirting is, thank you very much!"

"There is a difference between lust and love," Francis reminded as if he knew everything on the subject, and Arthur rolled his eyes. "But you could never make difference of the two."

"What did you expect me to think when you were practically stalking me all the goddamn time?" Arthur squawked. Francis laughed and then just smiled at him, Arthur growing more and more uncomfortable under his stare. "What is it?"

"I recall you asking that question when you were in a much different state of mind," Francis said, smile broadening. "Already I have kept my promise to make you happy."

Arthur blinked at him and realized that, although he was annoyed, he was more lighthearted than he had been in a long time. Then reality came crashing down upon him again, crushing the little paradise they had created for themselves and only them. But he was determined not to let the situation overtake him as it had before, because now he was acutely aware that he had so many things to live for and just the thought of them alone would make him stronger than any pair of hands could.

 _What a fool,_ Arthur thought as he imagined the Overlord, sitting somewhere, far from the reaches of Resistance fighters. Or at least he _thought_ he was. _He created something so terrible, something he thought would cut us to the core. But he also played matchmaker to us, to everyone, made us find each other. He made us realize how blind we really were._

"You look content," Francis commented as Arthur returned to the situation at hand.

He responded by resting his forehead against Francis's. "I am." He pressed a kiss to Francis's lips and decided it was time to see to preparations once more.

_In disaster, he only managed to make us stronger._

"And don't think that's an excuse for you to just walk up and have a kiss all the time."

By which, Francis picked up from his tone, would be a perfectly good (and welcome) excuse.

* * *

_1:00._

"It's getting better."

Ivan scoffed, shifting as Alfred's fingers pressed over a particularly tender spot on the wound. "It would be 'better' if it were healed by now."

Alfred was silent, and the Russian knew it was because he could not refute his words, were weighing them in his mind, adding the risk the wound posed to the mix. He continued on with his tending, dabbing a bit of cream at the affected area with a scrap of cloth. "I shouldn't have let you fuck me," Alfred said, voice barely above a whisper. They were currently in the room they shared with Arthur, Francis, and Matthew, though the first two were absent. Ivan was sitting on Alfred's cot, the latter kneeling before him in concentration, and Matthew was currently unrolling the gauze for his own wrists across the room. Yet he didn't look up as Alfred continued, "It looks redder than before."

Ivan took time to reflect on how silly it seemed to be discussing this in hushed tones when just a few hours earlier they had been expressing quite loudly (and obscenely) their dedication to one another. Matthew would not be in the least bit shell-shocked at overhearing their conversation. "That is because you are treating it, Fredka. Is nothing to worry about, da?"

He knew Alfred must have picked up on the hurt in Ivan's voice; how Alfred could just say he wished he could take back all that had happened in that shower room, as if he would rather have gone without it. Ivan knew it wasn't true. He had been woken at midnight with Alfred clinging to him, the man kissing him as they rose, always making sure he was in contact with at least some part of Ivan as they shuffled around to make themselves presentable. The Russian had been preparing for the past hour, visiting the meeting room to look over the plans again to cement them in his mind, packing up his things and storing them in a secluded little corner, pacing before lighting up a forgotten cigarette to calm his nerves, and Alfred had been right there the whole time, following him like a puppy, all round eyes and perked ears whenever Ivan threw so much as a glance at him. It was endearing as much as it was reassuring.

Alfred placed a hand on Ivan's thigh, warm even through the dense fabric. "I'm just worried about you," he said, round eyes and perked ears again. As if he had done something wrong.

Ivan patted him on the head when he really wanted to embrace him. Tell him how grateful he was to hear that Alfred was so concerned about his well-being. Instead he wove his fingers through Alfred's hair, smiling down at him. "It seems you need a haircut."

It was necessary to their operation for them to blend in with the rest of the Organization's troops. Months on the run had their hair long and unkempt and their faces stubbly—definitely _not_ the order the Organization strictly adhered to. Ivan took scissors to Alfred and later a razor. Modern ones were hard to come by, difficult to obtain without suspicion as well, so a newly sharpened straight razor discovered in the recesses of the bunker had to suffice. Shaving cream was scarce. Soap was all that stood between Alfred's skin and a glorified knife.

"Do you trust me?" Ivan murmured against Alfred's ear. The man shivered and nodded, trembling as Ivan set the razor to his skin, starting a slow, sloping line downward. For every swipe, Ivan would give him a kiss, and Alfred would calm little by little. One on the forehead, one on each cheek, one on the tip of his nose, his lips as Ivan wiped off the remnants with a towel. Alfred's face was smooth and unmarked, apart from a few scars and some bruising around his left eye from the car accident earlier. Ivan just hoped he wouldn't see any damage worse than what was already present.

Then it was Ivan's turn, Alfred clipping off excess hair, ridding him of the weight of all their previous hardships, leaving room to take on new ones. He flinched as Alfred cut him with the razor, the American giving a squeak of, "Sorry!" When he was done, Alfred had only managed to cut him twice, and Ivan caught him watching him in the mirror as he dabbed at the bleeding cuts with the towel they had been using. Ivan pressed at one cut a bit too hard, a sting shooting through him and making his hand flinch away. He _tch_ ed when he found that he had smeared the blood across his throat in the process. By the time his eyes returned to the mirror to continue his cleaning, he noticed Alfred rubbing at his eyes behind him.

"Something is wrong?" Ivan asked, turning.

Alfred drew his hands away from his face and wiped them on his pants, sniffing. "I just… the blood… it looked like—I-I never wanna see you like that." He stared fixedly at a point on the far wall, refusing to meet Ivan's gaze. "Don't you dare let me see you like that, Ivan. I-I'll kick your ass." A sniff. Another wipe to the eyes. He turned his back to him, trying to run away from his vulnerability.

Despite the image he knew Alfred to be envisioning, Ivan couldn't help but give a soft smile. Ivan had never thought he would be so happy to see Alfred cry, but he was crying for him. It was so obvious now. Alfred was hopelessly in love, and it amused Ivan that he didn't have the ability to contain emotion unlike himself, who had been nurturing such affection and taking rejection for so long he had learned to hide his heartbreak behind a plastic smile.

He wondered what Alfred would think if he knew that Ivan could sense these things about him. Centuries of observation had clued Ivan in to Alfred's mannerisms, predicting the stiffening of the shoulders and the shuddering exhale as Ivan's arms came around him from behind. He rested his chin on Alfred's gradually relaxing shoulder.

"You are such a child, Fredka."

It took one to know one.

* * *

_1:30._

Red was sitting under the vent in the meeting room, smoke curling up to the ceiling from the cigarette balanced between her fingers. She looked strangely still—separate from the bustle of preparations. She looked like she was someplace very far away.

Francis took a seat next to her. He had just finished going through the rest of his worldly possessions, having taken a whole hour to tear his fingers and eyes away from what was and what could possibly no longer _be_ his. _An embroidered kerchief from Austria, his trusty lighter now useless, an empty pack of Gauloises, a drawing of Napoleon that Matthew had given him when he was a child, a patchy feather snatched from Arthur's tricorne during a spat on the sea, daguerreotypes of Alfred and Matthew together and laughing, handfuls of photos of Arthur passed out in a boozy slumber._ One, two, three, four, Napoleon, Matthew, Alfred, Arthur. Again and again he counted, organizing by color, shape, people, meaning. _One of the French crown jewels, a lady's favor from a tourney, a page agonizingly torn from Voltaire's_ Candide—Cela est bien dit, mais il faut cultiver notre jardin— _rosary beads centuries old and sparse on the string, a wild lock of Gallia's hair stored in a purse with worn francs bearing the Fleur-de-lis._ One, two, three, four, royals, Voltaire, church, Gallia. And back again and again until he was sure that he would never forget, for as long as he lived, that he used to be a country called France, the history of which may now be limited to the contents of his pack.

He needed something to do before he returned to getting lost in his memories.

He jumped a little when a pack of cigarettes was offered to him. "Take it," Red said, smoke curling out of her nostrils as she exhaled. She wasn't even looking at him. "It's the last one."

Her words left room for _I know you need one_ , but Francis wisely took the lone cigarette before she had the chance to say anymore. Red slid her lighter across the table, and Francis gladly lit up, eyes watering and throat itching as smoke rolled down to his lungs for the first time in weeks. They sat in silence, just smoking, eyes trained on different points in the room as they listened to the others shuffle around the bunker. Halfway through, the image of the safehouse rose to Francis mind; of the smoke he'd had in the back by himself, stupidly; of the inmates dragging him away to the school where they—

He squashed the memory along with his cigarette, watching them turn to ashes in the tray on the table.

Red didn't so much as glance at him as he pushed back his chair and stood, walking back down the hallway and turning into his shared room. He didn't acknowledge anyone within, didn't even know who was in there or if he was alone. He unzipped his pack and dug through the contents, pushing memories aside to procure a knife. The one Gilbert had given him as a keepsake during the wars.

The clothes were in the shower room. The black ones, with the long sleeves and turtleneck, leather gloves and puffy black pants. The ones with the gray insignia on the breast. He locked the door behind him and pulled Matthew's borrowed sweater over his head, pressing his lips to the braided moose pattern before folding it delicately. He then dug the point of the knife into the top of his jeans, carving downward until they were strips hanging off of his legs. He tore them off the rest of the way and tossed them across the room, satisfaction bursting through him as they hit the far wall with a _whump_. Gritty hands had touched them, removed them so that they could get beneath, clawing and hurting. Imprints of filth, gone. Clean now, he stepped into the new Organization pants, pulling them up and belting them on. He slipped the shirt over his head and the vest along with it. His shoes and gloves were last.

And there he stood in the scuffed mirror, having taken up the garb of the enemy. A black masquerade that would turn red before long. He smiled and left his discarded clothes where they were, kicking the massacred jeans as he made his way out. He passed Arthur in the hall, both walking in opposite directions. Arthur slowed, visibly struck by Francis's appearance, long enough for Francis to give him a peck to the lips. He left Arthur standing there, staring, feeling his eyes follow him back out to the meeting room where Red was still sitting.

He sat back down in the chair just as Red stood. Her green eyes fell on him, turbulent and steady all at once. "You found your new clothes?" she asked. Her black mirrored his own, blending, twins, unsullied, not alone. The first step to ending everything.

Francis flashed a smile. "Oui, I did."

* * *

_2:00._

_Shick._

Yao winced at the sound as he squeezed his fingers in the scissors, eyes following the long strands as they drifted to the cold cement floor. He pulled his gaze away and back to the makeshift mirror, fingers working again. _Shick. Shick._ He couldn't watch anymore, relied on touch to complete the action instead.

Sitting crosslegged on the floor in the corner of his shared room, a butterfly knife he had forgotten all about nestled in his lap, angled especially to reflect the cutting of his hair. It was difficult to do, and not because the position made it difficult. Each snip of the scissors took more of himself away. Even as a fledgling empire, Yao had always worn his hair long and tied, a tradition that had never died with him despite the rest of his people moving on with the times. He had always thought it was his obligation to keep tradition alive, even if it had drawn its last breath and been buried six feet under with Organization shovels. His eyes wandered down to the pile of hair at his feet again, sullen. Thousands of years of culture gone with a few clips of the scissors. _Shick. Shick._

He had been wrong before, about his strength. Why not now? The Uprising had made him lose trust in himself when he knew he had more than enough knowledge to fix this, and he hated it. He hated that someone was trying to squash him out of existence again, how, despite having faced it before, Yao was beside himself, feeling as if he was slowly being sucked into a pit of quicksand with nothing to grab onto even though he _knew_ there was something out there that could help him escape. He felt as if he was descending into that despairing spiral he knew so well, had fought so hard to claw his way out of, had promised himself again and again he would never fall back into.

Yet, here he was, spiraling. Again. There was nothing for him to hold onto, nothing that couldn't be lost in a matter of hours.

 _Shick, shick_ went the scissors through his hair.

No. It couldn't be that way. If one person could change the world with their words, then their little group shouldn't have any excuse not to succeed.

_Shick. Shick._

And this hair, yes, this _hair_ , this dead weight of despair and bleak nostalgia were at the center of his worry, blocking him from the view of that handhold past the sinking pit he was stuck in. His brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, fingers flexing with renewed fervor, _shick, shick_ , music to his ears, the trumpet at the start, the rallying cry. _Shick-shick, shick-shick,_ up to his ears, a scattered pile at his feet, all ink-shine and yesterday. Clearing the foliage, the unnecessary curtain blocking his view of the other side, the determined side, the side he'd worked so hard to revive. _Shick-shick-shick-shick._ Almost there now, reaching with everything he had, and he knew he could do it, had done it before, why not now? There was no excuse.

 _Shick, shick._ The last bit gone, and there it was, a handhold. He pulled himself out of his trap as he lifted the butterfly knife to his face, pushed the remainder of his hair behind an ear. His lungs felt constricted, something working its way up from his throat, but he refused to let it out, couldn't afford to. He glanced at the glossy pile again. Had he really that much gray hair?

He swept the heap away before he could dwell on it, storing it in a corner and pulling himself up to sit on his cot. He leaned back on his hands, tipping his head up to the ceiling, lightheaded, the absence of hair on his shoulders and back strangely satisfying. He wasn't letting go of what he had; no one could ever make him forget, ever make him stop, returning to his past. What was the future but a projection of the past? The sun set only to rise again, the stars glittered to remind that there was still light out there, somewhere, in the dark. He wasn't forgetting, he was transcending. He would go farther than he ever had been and when he felt he finally achieved what he wanted, what _needed_ to be achieved, he would return—for wasn't that the ultimate goal of the pioneer, the one who changed everything with his experiences? There had always been barriers, hurtles, time that would keep Yao from what he knew he needed. Now that they were gone he had a clean slate, fingers free of the scissors and eager for the chalk. His heartbeats may no longer thrum in time to the phases of his country and his traditions may lie in the sorry, abandoned strands of hair in the corner for who knew how long, but he still had a heart, _his_ heart, and he had never felt such ownership of it, such potential pumping through it, until now.

And that gray hair? They had firm roots. The past he would be sure to return to.

* * *

_2:30._

"So… should I spray it down with a chemical agent or just blow it up?"

The question made Alfred wince internally at its reference to what very well could be their close demise, but he forced himself to smile a fake smile, for his daughter. She was standing in front of the doorway to the shower room, looking as displeased as ever, chewing as she nodded to the room in question.

It took Alfred's brain a few moments to process what she was asking him, his mind everywhere at once. Then he flushed and scratched the back of his head sheepishly. "Oh, uh, _that_. Well…" He glanced away. Oh God, he hadn't even considered if Red had heard them…

Red appeared unimpressed. "Him? Out of everyone in the world and it had to be _him_?"

Alfred huffed. "Oh, don't give me that crock of bullshit. You're probably the biggest hypocrite when it comes to this and you know it."

For a moment, Alfred thought that Red would explode like she usually did when it came to anything about Ivan. It was well known that she absolutely hated the man and Alfred was very surprised that she hadn't led her own covert operation to wipe him off the globe (which, unfortunately for him, was understandable, considering Red's devil-may-care reputation). But no. Red _smiled_. "Yeah," she laughed a bit. "Guess so. But," and here her smile disappeared, "if that sneaking commie ever does anything to—"

Alfred scoffed. "Like I couldn't beat his ass if he _did_ do something."

Red blinked at him, as if just realizing that Alfred—this haggard, piteous Alfred—could take care of himself. She shrugged. "Hey, don't come crying to me if he breaks your—or rather _rips your heart out_. Literally, I mean."

Alfred sighed. It came as a relief, among all the other shit going on, that his daughter could tolerate his choice to be with Ivan. Although, a little voice in the back of his head suggested, it was more of a need than a choice. "Um, thanks Red, I—what are you eating?"

Red's answer came in the form of chaw spat onto the floor. Alfred eyed the brown phlegm with cringing disgust. Ugh, he could never understand how he had chewed that stuff himself for so long. "Uh… ran out of cigarettes?"

Red nodded and sucked her teeth, gathering the tobacco into a wad inside her cheek. "Yup."

"Is spitting on the floor really… necessary?"

Red was already walking away down the hall. "It's all gonna get blown up anyway." And she closed the door to her room.

Alfred should have known better than to criticize her, but he was rather moody himself and was forgetting all his experience gained from and used to interact with others, so focused was he on their upcoming mission. It was as if everything was growing blurred while the coup was consistently sharper with each second that passed.

Alfred was getting nervous again, wringing his sweaty hands and deciding that he needed to go back to his room to lie down, even though he knew sleep would not come to him. Still, it wouldn't kill him to try… was one of only a handful of things he was sure wouldn't kill him now.

He walked into the room and made straight for his cot, dropping down onto it and laying on his back, hands folded over his stomach, staring with unfocused eyes upward. He didn't even notice that someone else was in the room with him until he heard shoe-clad feet shuffling toward him.

"Can't sleep?" Arthur asked, sitting on the cot at Alfred's feet.

Alfred sighed. "Yeah. I never can at times like this. When everything hangs by a thread."

"Yeah,"

Silence.

"Hey, Alfred."

"Yeah, Art?"

"When you were small, you used to climb trees… bloody tall ones. Do you remember that?"

"… Yeah."

Arthur smiled and stared ahead of him. "And no matter what I said, you wouldn't come down, goddammit. But when you did, you always ended up slipping, and I would rush forward like a fool to catch you. I would never make it and you would hit the ground, and I would stop breathing for a moment…"

Alfred felt awkward at the confession, but also a bit… touched (still, it was pretty corny). As much as he wanted to interrupt his brother so that he could end all this weird sappy shit about memories, something inside him made him hold his tongue. Or maybe that was just the angst silencing him.

"But you would always jump to your feet in the end. Brush off the dirt. You'd have a few cuts and bruises, of course, but that never deterred you from climbing those damned trees. You would always laugh and say—"

"'I'll get it next time', yeah, yeah, Artie, I can remember my own childhood." Alfred felt bad for shattering the moment, but he had too many questions to ask. He settled for only one of them. "Why're we talking about memories, bro? You're not one to get all sappy from a case of nostalgia."

Arthur chuckled a bit. "You were always scraped up and bruised and a bit bloody, but you would always wear that stupid smile and laugh that stupid laugh of yours." He looked down at Alfred then, and the American felt frozen by his gaze. "If I go—whether it be today, or tomorrow, or a few weeks from now—I would see you smile again. Because… it got me through a great deal, no matter if I wasn't sappy enough to admit it."

Alfred stared, wide-eyed and at a loss for words. He would have liked to say something back, but Arthur was already headed out of the room.

"Get some rest, Alfred."

When the door was shut and Alfred could no longer hear the Briton's footsteps, he sighed.

"Always knew he was a softie."

He smiled.

* * *

Translations:

Mon chou-sweetheart

Cela est bien dit, mais il faut cultiver notre jardin-That is well said, but let's cultivate our garden (Quote is from Voltaire's _Candide_ , and I take no ownership of it whatsoever!)

*Also some references to foreign imperialism in China (though I hope you caught that). And 'chaw' is slang for chewing tobacco, particularly the phlegm you have to spit. Ick.

A Word From the Writer: Aw fluffy fluff fluff at the end there. I actually wrote the little America and England talk thing months ago when I thought, "Well, wouldn't that be sweet?"=^^= Anyway, thank God I got this finished... I'll admit, not as clean or powerful as I want, but I was pressed for time. I've kind of been procrastinating with school shit and now I have everything piling up with research papers and anthologies and reteaching myself math from the bottom up since I didn't have any this year for a placement test (don't do it, children! Take a math class your last year or you'll be royally screwed, I'm telling you, not worth it!) and *sigh* just a lot of stuff I really should have done earlier. And then I've also been devoting more time than I can afford to the little smutty one-shot I've been writing. I think I'll post it right after I finish this fic. Want a hint? (It's a threesome). _So,_ apart from my poor time management skills, just a few notes: 1, chewing tobacco is kind of disgusting, which is the reason why nobody does it anymore (kinda went almost extinct since the manufacturing of cigarettes in the early 20th century), though I have seen some people still do it... but they're mostly rural old men whose teeth are (unsurprisingly) rotting out of their heads, so, um... good on them for keeping tradition alive? 2, Gallia was France's mother, and 3, Voltaire is one of my writing heroes and I am currently reading _Candide_ (my French sucks balls by the way, but my teacher is lazy and I'm lazy and... I'll just start over in college, fml).


	106. Plunge

**The deep breath before the...  
**

Warning: Angst, fluffy GerIta, sad stuff, combative situation, reference to mass breeding and alcohol, sexual situation (wut, I said there wouldn't be anymore O:), innuendo, OCs, incest (if you think about it that way...) and (my first little bit of) sexy/fluffy yuri.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

**Plunge**

_3:00._

Andre had let him borrow his room for practice. Kiku knew his primary weapon would be his gun, but anything could happen. His katana was the answer.

He had spent the past hour sharpening it, eyes never straying from the edge. And now he was listening to it whistle through the air, slicing, thrusting, parrying at an invisible foe. One could never have too much practice.

 _Swish. Sigh. Swish._ He thought it would sound different because of all that it had been through, but it sounded the same as the day he'd received it. He closed his eyes and opened his ears. _Sigh._ Left foot extending for a turn. _Swish._ Rotating on his left heel, sweeping his right back in an smooth, instinctual semi-circle. _Sigh. Swish. Jab._ The enemy in front of him was speared on his blade, the glinting, red-dripping metal jutting out of their back. He pulled his katana back and saw the man crumple to the ground behind his eyelids. He turned again. _Swish. Slice._ Another foe downed, his severed arm leaking scarlet onto the floor. Another turn, another calculated sweep of his foot. _Swi_ —

"Тпру! Hey now." Japan's eyes flew open to see Ivan standing before him, the blade of his katana poised a half inch from the Russian's torso. Ivan lifted his eyes from the weapon to Kiku's own, offering a wry smile. "You certainly seem enthusiastic." He pushed the sword aside with two stiff fingers.

Kiku just stared. Ivan was smiling—and it wasn't fake. And why now, of all times? Before he had the chance to respond, Ivan had slipped behind him, leaning down and whispering, "As you were. Try and strike me."

To say Kiku was a bit nervous was a gross understatement. Ivan had never had much love for Kiku and Kiku had been tentatively tip-toeing around him ever since… well, _that._ He wasn't entirely sure if he _should_ close his eyes, despite not having already been killed in his sleep after the Uprising brought them all together. On top of that, he didn't want to hurt Ivan. Not only would he get a taste of whatever Ivan chose to pull out of his coat, but he'd also have to deal with Alfred. The latter had been acting like a hormonal girl of late. He'd seen pissed Alfred. He'd seen murderous Alfred. But he knew he never had any desire to see _bitchy_ Alfred.

Yet he knew that not doing what Ivan asked was the worst option, so he obeyed. Besides, Ivan was asking him to strike him; it wasn't as if he could be completely at fault if he happened to succeed.

Hands nestled close, fingers curled around the textured hilt of his katana, Kiku perked up his ears and waited. It was well known that Ivan was very silent with his movements, but so was Kiku and he had trained his hearing to strict acuteness. Five minutes passed, and Kiku began to doubt himself—as he had slowly begun doubting himself since the Uprising—but then there was the tell-tale _shh, shh_ of shoes across dusty concrete, and he had spun around and brought the sword down in the direction of the noise almost as quickly as one could blink. The shoes stopped moving and for a heart-stopping moment Kiku thought that he might have nicked Ivan without feeling it, the man slowly coming up behind him even then, fingers itching to wrap around his neck and squeeze. But Kiku's katana was an extension of his arm—a fifth limb. He would certainly feel if he'd hit his target or not. Just as he restored his confidence, _shh, shh_ reached his ears again on his other side, and he wasted no time swiveling around to meet the sound with arching blade.

Time after time his sword fell without any hint of hitting its intended target, and Kiku began to grow worried. It was as if that _shh, shh_ was mocking him. Were his reflexes truly so lax?

And then, "Молодец, comrade. Open your eyes."

Kiku did, and what he saw had all the air leaving his lungs. Ivan was a hair's breadth away from being gutted. Quietly horrified, Kiku's eyes trailed up and down the Russian's body, relief evading him despite visually confirming that everything was intact. His gaze then returned to Ivan's face and he found the man staring at him with a look almost of… adamant respect.

"You were this close to getting me the entire time," Ivan reported, gesturing, smile returning. The sincere one. "You have good senses. If I were a half second slower, I would be run through with your sword." Kiku shivered internally at the scenario as Ivan stepped away. The katana was lowered. "You are ready. You have been ready all this time. I am actually a bit jealous." He chuckled and added, "Carry on." And he just stood there, eyes fixed on the man who just a minute before had nearly cut him down.

Kiku blinked in confusion before uncomfortably settling back into his routine of _swish, sigh, jab, slice_ , shrinking under the Russian's intent staring. Every time Kiku turned his back on Ivan, his heart sped up a bit, and, for one of the first times in his life he was struggling to focus.

Hands were crushing his shoulders. "Rat," was the uttered provocation.

Before he could gather what he was doing, he was turning, sweeping, and slicing right at Ivan. But then Ivan was just past the end of his blade, once again within less than an inch of death. And still all he could sport was a smile.

"I will see you," Ivan said, "at the end of the battle." _Shh, shh_ went his shoes all the way out of the room.

Kiku stood there, staring. Then he felt the heaviness of the metal in his hand and he lifted it, saw himself looking back on the shining hamon, and he filled his lungs with an air of confidence.

* * *

_3:30._

_Verdammt, stop looking at it._ The words kept going through his head, but every time his muscles so much as twitched to discard it, his fingers would lock up like an oyster, refusing to surrender something so precious.

He shouldn't have opened his pack, shouldn't have done a last minute check to see if anything that could benefit him in the upcoming coup was hidden within. Instead, he had spilled nostalgia into his lap, and his already tired eyes ached after reading each line of he and his dead brother's early correspondence over and over, marveling over the grotesque loops and scraggly paths of ink as they traveled across the page. Ludwig thought that seeing Gilbert's handwriting after his death would come across as infinitely beautiful—but in the end it was still the same horrendous, erroneous scrawl, the same Gilbert. His breaths quivered a little.

But what had entranced him most of all—had kept him occupied for nigh on half an hour on his knees in a corner of his own grief—was what had fallen out from between the carefully-folded letters.

The pocket watch was so tarnished that the silver coating was rubbing off on the pads of his fingers as he turned it over, reluctant to let go. _Time is such an aloof thing. I can hold it in my hands here, but capturing it is complete foolery._ He felt his face growing hot, pressure building up behind his eyes, wetness gathering—the leak in a dam before the flood. The hands were still unmoving, pointing stiffly to midnight. Many times his thumb passed over the textured button at the top of the arc that would send them on their circular journey, but when he so much as touched it he was reminded that this was where Gilbert used to place his thumb, used to wind it and launch it into action. He removed his thumb then, worried that if he let it linger there he might be compelled to sit there and hold the watch forever.

There were so many dents and scratches, and it was so worn; typical Gilbert property. His laughs were nothing but quiet expulsions of hot, quivering air as he thought of the pocket it used to reside in; the smell of the material it had been surrounded by; all the places it had been and events it had seen only to return to that pocket; the hand that had held it more times than he knew.

He was so wrapped in he and Gilbert's shared memories that he didn't hear someone walking into the room and coming up behind him until arms wrapped around his waist. A chin was propped up on his shoulder, and a distinct curling strand of hair tickling his neck was enough for him to identify who it was.

Feliciano did not speak, and Ludwig was grateful. If he so much as heard reference to his mourning or even Gilbert's name he may lose what little composure he had left. Instead of exchanging words, the Italian merely tightened his arms around him and transferred his forehead to the tense space between Ludwig's shoulder blades. He slowly pulled Ludwig back into the time they were meant to be in, _had_ to be in. Ludwig took a deep, cleansing breath… and stored the letters back in his pack. The pocket watch, still sporting the original chain, he placed into his jacket.

When he saw himself fit to finally face Feliciano, the Italian pushed something cold and smooth into his hand. A kiss was pressed to Ludwig's forehead, and Feliciano was gone.

Ludwig stared after him for a few moments before he looked down, opening his hand. A chain… a naked one. The German cleared his throat of the prickly lump forming within as he looped the chain through the watch and clasped the chain around his neck. He rose from the corner without a glance back, deeming it time to truly prepare, Feliciano's chain around him and Gilbert's pocket watch over his breast.

* * *

_4:00._

His fingers always returned to that one spot on his arm; the one that held so many lost possibilities.

Whatever he was doing, he would always find his hand on the scrap of fabric, delicately feeling along the edges, tracing the paisley designs with careful grace; the kind of touches it deserved as well as the one who had once accepted it as an unannounced token of Matthew's affection.

Matthew shook his head at the ridiculous thoughts the situation conjured as he sat loading and reloading his weapon as practice despite a century of experience. The bandana reminded him of the favors Francis used to mention in all of his knight's tales as his voice lulled a younger Matthew to sleep. Every time Matthew thought of or touched the bandana, he imagined a knight striding forward on his destrier to accept a silken handkerchief offered by one of the highborn maids of the court. But Matthew was no knight, and Sadiq had certainly _not_ been a pretty young maid. He could almost laugh if it weren't for the feel of the bandana reminding him of all the reasons he should not.

 _That cheesy Phantom of the Opera recitation…_ He found that he had set down his gun and the magazine he was loading, fingers right back where he expected them to be. After a time of stroking, Matthew could imagine the material felt like the warm skin he had sought refuge beside from the cold, had witnessed turn flush-red above him while they were joined in so many other ways than carnality could provide.

_"Perhaps when our one thousand and one nights are over, we will be able to be happily in love. Until then, our story will continue and we will have to leave it to Fate to decide if it is a happy ending or a sad one."_

Fate had screwed him over too many times. When the sun rose, he was taking back what it had stolen, everything from past to present. As cruel and untouchable as Fate was, he knew he could trick it just as the Merchant had tricked the Jinni. He would bottle it, carry it along with him in his pocket wherever he went, summoned only by his desire. He would tie the bandages around his wrists tight and hope he never fumbled in his handling of Fate again. Because if no one chose to take control of at least some aspect of Fate in their lives, then there wouldn't be any nations—any history—at all. He would have _his_ ending, whether Fate liked it or not.

* * *

_4:30._

Her last chew and then she would be out. She curled her lower lip, spitting twice as far as she had before. It hit the wall this time and trailed brown fingers downward. It had been a while since she had chewed tobacco instead of smoked it; it had been a long time since everything. She wiped her nose on the back of a gloved hand and picked up her chewing again. The taste was an old, welcome friend. It reminded her of the lazy hum of insects in warm summer evenings, the southern smell of hay and burning manure. She would sit out on her rickety little porch, the pant-legs of her worn overalls rolled up to her calf, barefoot and chewing, one shoulder strap dangling somewhere around her hip. Every now and then she would angle her chaw into the stained spittoon, a scraggly kitten leaping up in an attempt to catch it while a fat old tom watched from his perch on the rocking chair. She could almost feel the frayed straw of her wide-brimmed hat as her fingers picked at it in her lap.

And the footsteps. She could hear the footsteps coming out of her house, joining her to watch the dark shape of the hay bales and the cows as they moved against the sunset. She could feel her hair spilling over her bare shoulder, arms coming around her waist, her voice bidding her come inside, it was late and the mosquitoes would bite her all up before long.

And just as soon, Red was centuries away, miles from the home she once had in the hazy south and at her other home, close to the tickling hair, embracing arms, and the voice that was soft only for her.

_"Ha… oh, wow."_

_They lay in bed, panting and sweaty. Red rolled off of her lover to lie beside her, smiling._

_"So, you liked it, eh?"_

_Penny laughed tiredly. "Well, if I didn't I wouldn't have said 'wow', now would I?"_

_Red snorted. "Smartass." And she leaned in to kiss her. Penny welcomed her, parting her lips to let Red's tongue slip in. Penny moaned, and Red's hand trailed to the heat between her lover's legs._

_Penny pulled away. "Ginny… no. We've already done it three times."_

_Red leered. "Might as well take advantage while I'm horny. Unless you wanna start another fight?"_

_Penny rolled her eyes. "_ I'm _not the one who starts them."_

_"Ah, shit, let's not fight over who starts fights," Red sighed and took one of Penny's soft breasts in her hand. "Hmm, maybe I wanna start another fight?"_

_"Why?"_

_"Purely for the makeup sex."_

_Penny sighed. "Gin, all of our sex is makeup sex."_

_"What's this, then?" Red asked, brushing a thumb over Penny's reddened nipple._

_Penny's breath caught, but her eyes retained the stern look Red so hated. "Stress-relief sex. Things have been so bad lately with the economy. Dad says he's doing all he can, but he looks worn out. And I'm afraid D.C.'ll drop at any second, he's running himself so ragged."_

_Red released her breast and huffed. "Don't bring up all that shit. It's such a turn-off."_

_"But it's affecting me, too," Penny said as Red sulked. "The army has already had to be called in to chase off the protesters in my state and many others. And the more they put in jail, the angrier the public gets. I don't know how long I'll be able to keep this up, Ginny. I'm so tired…"_

_Red snorted. "You're telling me. Normally we go five rounds straight."_

_"Ginny."_

_"Yeah, babe?"_

_"I'm serious."_

_"Everyone's so fucking serious lately," Red said dismissively. "Can we try to at least forget the whole thing during pillow talk?"_

_"I_ can't _forget it, Gin," Penny snapped, glaring. "And neither can you. We can't just ignore this. We have to talk about it, make a plan—"_

_"But right after sex?" Red asked with a snort. "Sis, you still over-think things too much."_

_Penny sat up, the blankets falling from her nude body. But she didn't seem to care; she was too busy glaring at Red. "Well,_ you _barely think at all!"_

_Red sat up, too. "You wanna start this now, huh? See, you always do start fights. I should've known sleeping with you so easily this time around would come with repercussions."_

_"You're terrible!" Penny snapped, standing and throwing a pillow in Red's face. "Don't you see_ anything _? This is the end of the world, Gin! I know it!"_

 _Red growled as she tossed the pillow away and stood also. "Oh, stop crying wolf when you don't even know if there_ is _a fucking wolf. It's that kind of behavior that's scaring the Dakotas!"_

 _"They_ should _be scared," Penny flashed back, slipping on her underwear and pants. "Not only do they have a rebellious public to worry about but lax, nonchalant siblings as well!"_

_Red huffed as she watched Penny pull on her bra, her shirt. "Why can't we ever just fall asleep together and wake up like a happy, normal couple?"_

_Penny glared at her. "We're not a couple, Ginny. We never were. Do you think the regular activities of a couple are fighting tooth and nail, breaking up for weeks, then getting together again for one night of makeup sex? Gin, we've been running in a mad circle for a century-and-a-half. And then you wonder why we can't sleep together peacefully for a full night?"_

_Red sat back down on the bed, watching Penny finish dressing. As her lover pulled on her shoes, Red muttered, "So 'I love you' doesn't mean anything to you then?"_

_Penny stopped by the door, turning to face her. "It does, Ginny. It's the only thing that's made me come back to you for decades on end. But if you truly love me, you would take what I say seriously instead of making everything a goddamn joke." She opened the door. "Goodbye, Virginia." She left._

_And Red never saw her again._

The hair, the arms, the voice all disappeared then, pulling Red back into bleak, unforgiving reality. She ran her fingers through her hair, like Penny used to do when they were alone and in love for just a moment, but no touch could ever be the same. "What if I said I missed you?"

* * *

_5:00._

Feliciano wanted to be alone for a while with his thoughts. And the voices. Always the voices.

 _Falling stars. No room. Hold up the sky. Bloody head,_ they whispered, and at the back of Feliciano's mind, something responded with, _Stop them._ He had been lying in his cot for an hour, not even the recalled, ghostly feel of Ludwig's skin and lips against his own providing any comfort. His mind was racing, thrumming, trying to find an answer to why the voices were there, growing steadily louder by the hour, more nagging, more painful. His eardrums felt as if they were being jabbed with knives and his brain felt like it was swelling in his skull, his head threatening to explode.

"Hold it up," Feliciano whispered to himself, eyes screwed shut, wincing, hoping that if he released some of what the voices were saying with his own voice he might ease the pressure building up in his head. If anyone walked in right now, he didn't know what he would do. He felt frightened and angry all at once.

"Stop, stop, _please_ ," Feliciano begged, hands going to his head, tugging at his hair and cupping his throbbing ears. _Just stop. I promise, I'll do it. I'll find out why. I'll help, okay? Please…_

And then it all just… stopped. Feliciano sat bolt upright, looking himself over, crying in utter relief. He turned, swinging his legs over the cot, flinching, stiffening, when he heard a chorus of voices ring, _You have promised._

 _Stars belong in the sky,_ Holy Rome's voice resounded like an echo within him. _You can hold them up. Together._

 _You have promised,_ the Ancients reminded.

"Si," Feliciano said as he pushed himself up from the cot with shaky arms. "I promise."

He didn't know exactly what he was promising, but whatever it was he couldn't back out now. Not for Holy Rome, not for Grandpa Rome, not for Lovino, not for everyone still alive and wanting more than anything for the world to be how it once was, however flawed, however unfair. They would solve this together to be sure, but in this mission Feliciano would be set apart. Set apart, but not alone.

_You have promised._

"I have," Feliciano answered before feeling the new voices lift him, giving him enough strength to hold up everything, even the sky.

* * *

_5:30._

Mere minutes before the horn for the morning gathering would sound, and the nations were all gathered in the meeting room, bidden only by their anxious states of mind. They were wide awake now, more awake and alive than they had ever been. Fingers trailed over weapons while thoughts remained fixed on 'Checkmate.'

Matthew felt something touch his hand, and there was Francis standing beside him, lips pressed to his temple. "Be safe, petit." There was more there to say— _don't let me see you dead_ —but Francis didn't want to say it and Matthew didn't want to hear it. Beside them, they could hear Ludwig make Feliciano promise to stay where he was supposed to, not to wander off, to retreat when it looked as if he might be hurt. "I promise," Feliciano said, as if he had been saying it for his entire life.

All ordered and professional they stood, hair cut accordingly, black covering all but their heads, bearing the Organization's mark, but nothing could change their identities. Their eyes on their watches, their hearts drumming so loud they feared they would be heard above. Memories passing through their heads of how the world used to be, never simple but still their own. They couldn't bear to look at each other no matter if they wanted to commit the images to memory. They feared if they did they would want to stay in the bunker forever, waiting until the Overlord found them out. They would die together, not split up, not knowing where or when or _if_.

They heard Red spit before she stepped into the room. She was no longer chewing, and she appeared as tired as she ever had been. "Well," she sighed. "Here we go."

Among the rapidly beating hearts and heavy, ragged breaths Ludwig wound the pocket watch to midnight, thumb poised over the start button.

* * *

_6:00._

The control board was blinking almost in anticipation. Cameras were still panning the tunnels, transmitting their entertainment to his screen. He watched with a chuckle as two men down Passage 7 fell all over each other in a drunken dance in an attempt to support themselves to their barracks. He would have to call them in tomorrow for a talk. They had been drinking way too much… and their weekly donations of spermatozoa were not on par with the requirements set down for the Expansion Program. Alcoholism would not be tolerated among future recruits—that's why he had created an officer's club to weed out the weak-livered ones. Their addiction should be serving his wishes, not indulging in their own pleasures… except, of course, at the Overlord's permission.

He glanced at the large electric clock on the screen that made up the entire wall before him. The second hand made its last round before the top of the hour. He knew very well that today would be a special day; the day he revealed his true power. After the dust cleared, he would have all the control he needed for his mission to be complete. He would be rewarded luxuriously, living out his life in pleasure and content as he watched his conditioned little insects scramble around to appease a power they had never bothered to pay much mind to. They were getting what they deserved.

The second hand aligned with the hour hand once again, and the Overlord extended itching fingers to flip the switch that would start the horn and the mass migration of a swarm of obedient flies. He could hear it even in his own chambers, far from their constant buzzing. He watched the screens as they flooded the tunnels and headed for the Gathering Place. A fitting place for flies to dwell, the sewers.

His finger moved to another switch then, one he had been waiting to use for months. He flicked it up. A voice, distorted with static, reached his ears. He knew he shouldn't have permitted them to use such primitive technology.

_"Yes, my Grand Overlord of this sacred Fellowship of Man?"_

It was a lengthy title, yes, but then again he didn't have to say it himself. He leaned forward and said, "The time is now."

And that was all he needed to say before the man on the other line replied, _"Yes, my Grand Overlord,"_ and the line closed.

The Overlord smiled and leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled in avid anticipation.

_So it begins._

* * *

Translations:

Тпру!-Whoa!

Молодец-Well done

Also a reference to the Russo-Japanese War.

A Word From the Writer: Finally! Phew, glad this is over. I was getting tired of waiting myself. My first yuri (somewhat) here. How I imagine it going: Red gets easily jealous and Penny insists on having her 'freedom' to do what she wants... which basically means screwing one of the other states and having Red find out through the grapevine. Then she gets pissed off and they get into an argument that ends with sexy times and then they fight and it starts all over again. I'm kind of exploiting (and maybe over-dramatizing) civil war tensions between them, since Red is good at holding grudges and Penny has a good (and long) memory. Let's just say that Penny is the more sensible and level-headed half of the relationship (if that wasn't already implied), but she does sometimes go to extremes to get what she wants... whether revenge or something else. It's kind of volatile, but the devotion is there... btw, the reason why Red got so angry over America calling her 'Ginny' earlier is because only Penny has permission to call her that, and the nickname reminded her that Penny is gone. And, the Overlord! Isn't he just a pleasant ray of sunshine? XD

Shit goes down (and I'm calling timber)... next post!


	107. Burn

**You'll tank me later.  
**

Warning: Violence, fight scene, weapons, explosions, gore.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

" _Anyone can give up, it's the easiest thing in the world to do. But to hold it together when everyone else would understand if you fell apart, that's true strength."_  


—Alexander Pushkin

**Burn**

Ivan was trapped again. Except now he wasn't in handcuffs with legs enough to carry him away. He was in a case of steel and iron, which, depending on his luck, may just serve as his coffin.

There were two other men in the tank with him, and although they had space to spare, he couldn't feel more cramped. _Five seconds tops,_ he thought. _Five seconds, a quick jab to the throat, and I will be free again._

He went over the plan again and again in his mind, bracing himself against the walls of the tank as it rumbled over hill and rock.

" _Team Beta," Red stated, eyes meeting his. "That's you and Francis. You will be responsible for taking back central D.C. and eliminating sentries and communication lines along the way."_

_"Just the two of us?" Francis breathed in disbelief._

_Red fixed Francis with a withering glare. "As much as I wouldn't mind sending the red wookiee out there to deal with it by himself," her eyes trailed to Ivan for a moment before once again regarding Francis with exasperation, "I have put you both in charge of a group of one hundred trained Resisters, fifty for each of you to command."_

_"'Each'?" Francis parroted, aghast. "You mean to split us up?"_

_"D.C. is large," Red answered. "And we are few. We must spread ourselves thin in order to accomplish what we want, but there's a distinct difference between us and them." She placed her hands on the meeting room table, making the full ashtray that sat on it rattle, and leaned in. They could all smell her pungent tobacco breath. "They are mindless. We are not. They do only what they are told and nothing else. Whatever amount of cunning they had in them before being conditioned is gone. They won't hide or run, and they certainly won't be devising any elaborate plans to take you out—unless, of course, they are instructed to. Their brains are one with the Overlord, and they will not think for themselves unless they are told to do so—an individualized control that the Overlord will be unwilling to give up. Sure, there will be many, but there is a big difference between an army of free-thinking humans and an army of hive-programmed ants. And ants have always been easier to crush." She pulled back and clasped her hands behind her. "So, fifty for Francis and fifty for Ivan. Sufficient enough. And on top of that, I'll be sending Bernard with you. He'll be happy to take out the sentries for you with his group of snipers."_

_Ivan looked at her with a steady gaze. "Your squad is large to be commanded only by yourself, and there are still some left over to aid the other teams as well, da? How expansive is this Resistance?"_

_A smile pulled at her lips—smugness brought on by the fact that she knew more than Ivan did. "Large enough," was her simple reply before she pulled her eyes away from his to take in all of the occupants of the room. "As I've said before, there will be a monthly training drill at the Ellipse at eight. Francis and Ivan, you will be in the thick of it, but wait for Bernard to give the signal before you make your move."_

_"And what kind of signal would that be?" Ivan questioned, disliking how uninformed he was about this part of the impending battle._

_"It won't be hard to miss," Red assured almost with an air of derision, her resentful look making it more than clear that she felt a certain note of revenge by keeping him in the dark. Whether that was for past enmities or Ivan's recent closeness to her father, he couldn't tell. He sensed it might be a bit of both. "And don't," she enunciated, "screw it up."_

Ivan scoffed as he recalled the conversation, distracting himself from his nerves by picking at the hem of his pants. _Trust Alfred not to raise any of his children with a heavy hand. He probably gave her whatever she wanted when she cried just to shut her up._

He imagined Alfred swaddling a squalling infant, flushed with exhaustion as he chased after his other states, shouting such things as "Hey! No hair-pulling!" and "Dirt is _not_ food!" He could almost laugh, but then he realized how far away Alfred's ridiculous antics were, how easily they could be lost. Here he was, sitting in the belly of a tank heading for a routine drill that was anything but routine, a mile away from Alfred, while Alfred himself took on the most dangerous part of all they had planned. Ivan hadn't liked the team layouts from the start. They were organized, Red claimed, so that they were paired with the people who would cause them the least distraction. No one had liked it, but no one could deny the sense in it either. Then again, it was a distraction to not have Alfred here, to worry about him from afar. He didn't want Alfred to die because Ivan's life was in danger—but he also didn't want to make it out only to find him killed, having been unable, having been too far away, to comfort him as he passed. Stark was the image of a wounded Alfred, bleeding out somewhere, hidden from view and struggling for breath, slowly dying all the while frightened and alone. As agonizing as it would be for him to experience, Ivan wanted to be there holding Alfred's hand, letting him know that he wasn't alone, that he was loved, as the man left his suffering behind.

One of the men sniffed ahead of him, pulling Ivan out of his murky thoughts. He stared at the back of their heads, generically shaven, physiques so similar it appeared as if they had stepped out of the same mold. They were not as bulky as some of their comrades, their muscles honed specifically to be lean, designed to lift them up and out of small spaces quickly and efficiently. They had certainly given Ivan strange looks when he had come up to them, reporting that he had been assigned to man the tank with them. Ivan was tall and barrel-chested; not the prime choice for a tank. But the look in the men's eyes went blank as they tried to examine him further, incapable of suspecting what, for all intents and purposes, looked to be one of their own. They had been taught not to question. Ivan's eyes narrowed as he studied their necks, elongated and exemplified by the black turtlenecks that wrapped around them, so skinny and inviting to the fingers. _Just another member of the hive, the nest,_ Ivan mused, flexing a leather-gloved hand. _Ants indeed._

Ivan knew they were close when the ground started flattening out, most of the streets they had been utilizing for travel pockmarked with the kisses of shells and other such explosives. The hard crunching of broken asphalt was replaced with a gliding smoothness. Grass.

 _The Ellipse._ President's Park South: a more than fifty acre long oval patch of grass that stretched up to the White House gates. It had once been so lovingly watered and cared for, a lush green even at the peak of summer. Now, browning and scraggly, covered here and there with snow that had managed to survive explosive drills, it crunched beneath the worn treads of an M1 Abram. It was hard to believe that such a dreary, desolate place, riddled with scorch marks and remnants of RPG blasts, was once host to an annual Easter egg roll and holiday home to a 28-foot-tall Christmas tree whose 60,000 LED lights could be seen for miles.

And all at once Ivan felt terribly homesick. If the world were still as it was, in a couple of weeks Red Square would be skirted with lights, turning the white snow into a kaleidoscope of color. Hundreds would pack themselves in like penguins, turning up their heads to regard the fireworks that were their own manufactured northern lights, popping in bright reds and greens and gold, illuminating the cathedral and the snow-dusted Christmas tree as they welcomed a new, promising year.

 _And then a week afterward…_ There would be Christmas and a meal with twelve courses…

His stomach growled a bit, but the men didn't look around. All he'd had since arriving at the bunker was soup (cabbage or gristle depending), bread, and oatmeal. He had done with far less, but his belly was conditioned to be particularly gluttonous around this time of year. And, hell, Ivan _deserved_ it. He could kill for just one of those twelve courses. In a way, he would be. One less Organization soldier meant one step toward good food.

He could almost laugh at himself. _I'm killing for food._ It all came down to that in the end, the simple things. _The world really has gone to hell._

But then again, he surmised, being homesick was worth nothing now. What was there to be homesick for if everything he had once known was gone? Homesick for _society_ seemed a better phrase and the worst part was wondering if even _that_ could be reestablished.

The tank spit as it shuddered to a halt, and Ivan was quickly shunted out of the scope of his petty, physical needs and into the wider, icy pool of the now. Every muscle in him wound tight as each minute they were still ticked by, the small space as quiet as death. No joking, no talking, not so much as a finger lifted until instructed. Ivan mimicked the men's silence and emptiness as best he could. A part of him wished his own mind could be so vacant instead of swarming with ominous doubts and fears.

He listened, the air so devoid of sound that he was sure he would go deaf just from hearing a whisper. Five minutes in, and he found himself subconsciously wringing his hands. He ceased immediately, eyes darting around. Their backs were to him; they couldn't see him…

Eight. _Eight minutes in_ and nothing had happened. He had been counting dutifully the whole time. The drill hadn't even commenced. Everything was stationary, so much so that for one heart-stopping moment Ivan thought they had been found out, that _they_ were the ones being ambushed. They knew he was in the tank. He couldn't count how many had seen him climb in. Those two men, with deceivingly still hands, were going to reach to their sides at the mere whisper of a command, any second now—

Ivan jumped at the sound of a distant gunshot, eyes darting to the thick, narrow windows that lined the front of the tank. A sea of black soldiers stood shoulder-to-shoulder before the tank outside, unmoving, stiff with duty. A few tense seconds passed, during which Ivan's heart threatened to squeeze out from between his ribs, and then—everything erupted.

Outside was mass chaos. Resistance forces had revealed themselves among Organization ranks, gunning down anyone who stood in their way while the opposition troops struggled to reorganize and make sense of what was happening. Ivan was incapacitated for a few seconds, mesmerized by the violence outside. It had started: the battle that would decide the fate of the world. He had never felt the weight of mortality rest so heavily upon his shoulders.

Then Ivan snapped out of his daze, legs pushing him forward before his mind could recall what he had to do. Hands found a black-clad neck before the man could so much as turn his head, squeezing, squeezing.

"Sonofabitch!" his comrade shouted, and Ivan could see his hands fumbling for his weapon. He squeezed harder. The man he was strangling gave a last hoarse wheeze, face and lips blue, blood vessels bursting in his eyes, and then he was slumping forward, a dead weight. By the time Ivan turned to deal with the remaining soldier, the man had slipped the gun out of its holster at his side. Ivan knocked it away with his hand before it could be aimed, sending it skidding across the floor of the tank and into a far corner. The soldier had just enough time to whimper before Ivan had him by the throat as well.

It was obvious that these men were inexperienced in combat; they were young (muscles still lean enough to slip easily in and out of tanks), possibly new recruits not yet wholly conditioned into a robotic mindset, still sporting that fearful spark in their eyes whenever Ivan's hands threatened them with death. And yet, as frightened as he was the soldier flailed, kicking out his legs and pulling at Ivan's arms in a desperate bid for breath. With every tug or writhe Ivan's hands slipped just a bit, sweaty with angst. He soon tired of the boy's struggles, heart lurching with every _chink_ of lead bouncing off the tank armor, and he drove the soldier up against the wall of controls.

"Die!" Ivan hissed impatiently, anxiously, as the boy's eyes rolled like a horse's in distress, legs kicking just as hard. "Будь ты проклят! Die!"

The boy's eyes were wet with horror before they filled with blood. He threw his head back against the wall in a final pathetic attempt at survival only to lose his breath from the impact and render himself unable to take another. The soldier's body went boneless, melting beneath Ivan's hands as the warmth of life left him, but Ivan didn't let up in the slightest, securing that the boy did not return.

Finally, he convinced his strained appendages to release their grip, and he watched as the boy's head lolled to the side, eyes open wide in a last look of shock. Blood continued to well in the soldier's eyes, eventually sending a dark tear winding down a pale, bloodless cheek. Ivan leaned back on his hands, staring, chest heaving, fingers aching after their prolonged stranglehold.

He could have, Ivan realized, as he snapped to and scrambled to move the bodies into a stack at the back of the tank, shot the men to save time. But even if his brain had been operating at full capacity beforehand he doubted he would have done so. After everything the Organization had done Ivan needed the satisfaction of seeing their soldiers' fear as they died slowly by his hands and not impersonally by one of their own stolen weapons. As brainwashed as he knew them to be, he couldn't bring himself to feel any sympathy for them, not after all that had happened.

Ivan had just accessed the driver's seat when a considerable blast rumbled through the skeleton of the tank just outside and he knew he had to get moving. He crammed himself into the seat, hand wrapping around the steering handle as tightly as it had the soldiers' necks.

Ivan hoped he still knew how to operate a tank, it had been so long since he'd manned one (and certainly not alone. That was never allowed). _You'll remember_ , he assured himself as he released the parking brake and shifted gears, no time for hesitation as more explosions and gunfire sounded around him, closer. He eased back the throttle.

Ivan had not liked the idea of being stuffed into a tank, trapped and as if in hiding while everyone else did all the dirty work. But he could not refute the necessity of it. As had been agreed, his job was to lead the Resistance forces assigned him to the Organization's Technical Headquarters, using the tank to shield his troops along the way. A mile he would have to go, all the way to the Archives where the HQ was based, but at least then he would be closer to Alfred. He used that as his motive as he twisted back the steering bar further, sending the tank from an apprehensive crawl into a steady roll.

It would be easier if he had an assistant, Ivan thought, as he struggled to peer into the periscope, continuing to operate the armored behemoth. Smoke curled and bullets, mere blurs, cut through the air. Every now and then there would be a flash of white and the reverberations of an explosion would rock the tank. He hoped his men were keeping up with him as he rounded a corner at which stood what was once the Department of Commerce, making his way down the crumbling road.

The dangerous sounds faded away for a time, and Ivan relaxed a bit. But he was only allotted five minutes of peace before Organization troops were rushing after him, and he could hear his own troops responding with gunfire.

Ivan wished more than ever that he had a clone, the gunner's seat positioned behind him and controls far out of reach. He could flatten the whole line of approaching Organization ranks, but he needed to keep guiding the tank or else risk having his men meet the opposing troops before they could fully execute their orders. He couldn't afford to lose anyone, but he knew by now that the possibility of no one having already died was especially slim.

At a conflicted crossroads, Ivan was startled by the sharp static flooding his eardrum, having completely forgotten in his adrenaline haze that he had an earpiece in, connecting him to the channel the Resistance was utilizing. A voice faded in, shouting.

_"… ets are approaching,"_ Bernard conveyed, shouting but firm. _"Ivan, they have jets. They're honing in on the tank. Abort immediately. Copy?"_

"Da," Ivan forced out as he practically punched the parking brake. He clawed his way up to the latch, squeezing awkwardly into the gunner's seat as he worked the hatch open. A quick glance at the cross-hairs dominating the gunner's view revealed dark silhouettes against the smoky sky, wings manifesting as they grew closer. His hands were steady, knew what to do more than his brain, which was currently trying to conceive all of the pain that would come with being blown up and slowly burning to death. "Aborting now." It sounded more like a question than a promise.

The resounding _click_ of the latch switched his heart on; blood was rushing in his ears as he used all his strength to push open the heavy hatch, bracing his hands on the sides, lifting himself up and out like a seal emerging from an orca-guarded ice hole. He heard the growing roar of jet engines, felt as if he had a giant target painted on his back. He didn't dare waste time glancing around as he slid haphazardly down the sharply angled side of the M1 Abram, barely feeling the cuts and bruises he earned from his reckless haste. As soon as his feet hit the cratered asphalt, he set to running. "Disengage!" he shouted to the men still holding their ground behind him. "Shells, shells! Disengage!"

He felt like such a coward for being the first to run, so much so that his muscles locked up and refused to allow him to go any further until he saw to it that his men were well out of range. He beckoned to them with wide gesticulations of his arms, shouting his mantra of "Disengage!" and "Shells!"

The last man ran past him, slowing as he stared, reluctant to leave Ivan without guard. "Go!" Ivan insisted with a rough shove of his hands that nearly sent the young soldier stumbling as he went on his way. The Russian took the time to realize that all the Organization men that had pursued them had moved well out of the way, and he followed their gazes, their upturned faces, as they watched the jets soar close, noses now looming ominously above the tank. Ivan stared in a kind of shocked paralysis, seeing the hatch open on a polished belly. Only then did he have the sense to turn and follow his men.

But as soon as he took his first bounding step Ivan knew he would never get out of range in time, and nothing was around that would hinder the force of the impending explosion. Yet he kept going, eyes trained on the pillared building with its blown out windows and crumbling columns that were the remains of the Archives, that was Alfred. His legs felt numb as they moved on their own, and then everything went silent and white and hot. A massive wave of heat rolled over him with force enough to flay, laying him flat across the faded road and pinning him there as fire rapidly gnawed at his body from the legs up. He couldn't hear, everything was a shifting, dizzying blur, and then he couldn't feel his lower half. And then, like a great breath over a candle, everything just went out.

* * *

Translations:

Будь ты проклят!-Damn you!

A Word From the Writer: Wow, that was kind of abrupt. And he didn't even get to do anything cool... except, well, drive a tank. By the way, I have never been (nor will I ever be) inside a tank, so I googled a bunch of stuff on tanks and threw all that I could gather in here. Dunno if a M1 Abram actually looks like that on the inside. Throttles on tanks have since evolved from levers to a sort of handlebar... that's pretty much all I found out. So yeah... tanks. And Russia managed to get himself caught in an explosion in the first ten minutes of the battle. Ouch.

By the way, if anyone is confused Russia uses the Julian calendar, which means Christmas falls after New Year's (on January 7). And the fireworks light up Saint Basil's beautifully. I _would_ like to see it in person, but me and cold don't mix. And that's why they invented television and the internet. Haha, I'm a hermit. -_-

The battle has finally begun! Phew, jeez and it's only been what, a year? All good things to come to those who wait~ (except this is a war and people may die). :D


	108. Fall

**Those black holes. Just showing up anywhere..  
**

Warning: Violence, weapons, fight scene, gore, attempted child rape, and (possible) character death.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

" _Success is not final, failure is not fatal: it is the courage to continue that counts._ _"_  


—Winston Churchill

**Fall**

Arthur was walking the length of Passage 14, back and forth, back and forth. He counted his steps one way, turned, counted again. His muscles locked up with each passing of an Organization soldier, but they paid him little mind. He was, after all, only a part of the hive.

Somewhere just on the other side of the grime crusted wall Ludwig was pacing in the same fashion. Entirely the same, Arthur knew well. His mind could pick up on the man's growing angst even at such a distance. For a time, he stilled enough to listen, tendrils of his consciousness brushing against Ludwig's thoughts. Everything was a jumble, something Arthur would not have suspected from the man's outward appearance, and among all the flying words was one that resonated as sharply as a church bell. _Feliciano,_ it rang. _Feli, Feliciano._ Arthur was soon reminded of Francis, Alfred, Matthew—of everyone who may be gone within the span of an hour or sooner, and he was forced to pull back, the inner being that controlled all things psychological curling up within him like a withered morning glory retreating from approaching nightfall. Arthur shivered and continued to pace again— _1, 2, 3, 4_ —as a realization stole over him, making him wonder whether a sunrise would ever come to coax open those shield-like petals or the darkness would stretch on long enough to have it killed in its own sanctuary. Another soldier walked by, all straight-backed and perfect formation, and Arthur shivered exponentially more than he had before.

_A black-clad finger swept across an elaborate map of tunnels, marked accordingly with numbers, arrows, colors, and the like. It paused on the number 14, tapping it. Green eyes met his like emerald shards and he couldn't help but think of Lennox._

_"Now, Team Charlie. Here. This'll be your post, and Ludwig's,"—here the finger slid from 14 to 16—"will be here. Currently most of the Organization's troops have already been deployed to their posts or training. The tunnels are hardly full, save the guards. Once Bernard gives the signal, it will take about two minutes for a summoning signal goes out. An alarm will sound in the tunnels, calling anyone within to arms. At this time, the troops assigned to you will rush out with the rest and spread themselves strategically among the Organization rats. Shawn will be with them and give them the go ahead to start butchering the opposing forces._ Do not _attract attention to yourselves. Kill just like everyone else and try to seem like you're just another Resistance fighter. We can't afford to lose you this early in the game._

_"Your goal, as previously stated, is to clear the tunnels, working your way up from the south to meet up with team Delta and as a unit free the women's sector, the children, and the hostages. There, I'll meet you with my team to escort all those you manage to free out of the tunnels and take any officer in sight captive."_

_"There are sure to be security precautions in place," Ludwig pointed out, brow furrowed as he examined the map further. Arthur could tell even without penetrating his mind that the German's thoughts were far from security issues. His eyes kept traveling to a far corner of the room in which, without looking, Arthur knew Feliciano to be standing, watching._

_"You're not wrong." Red's finger began to move from point to point and all their eyes eagerly followed. "These places are all rigged with explosives. When the Council receives information that a battle is going down within the tunnels, they'll give the go ahead to activate the weapons."_

_Arthur's heart sped up a little with the thought of possibly being blown to bits in any number of places at any time. "I assume this is where Todd and Danny come in?"_

_Red nodded. "Throughout the operation, Todd will be communicating with you via earpiece. It is important that you listen to_ everything he says. _Or else you're meat confetti."_

_Arthur's stomach churned at the image before Todd stepped forward, keeping an even gaze with them all. "From what we have learned, the defenses installed in the tunnels require two affirmations for decommission: one from the source on site and the other from its branch network which can only be accessed from within the Technical Headquarters. I'll try to hack into the system as quickly as I can, but no guarantees can be made as to just how many I can decommission before they go off. As long as you listen to the channel when I tell you to get the hell out of the way, then you'll be fine."_

Arthur scoffed. _Yeah, just fine._ At the morning training drill that very minute, Todd was standing in rank, shoulder to shoulder with Organization soldiers who knew nothing of what was coming. After the signal, he would be on his way to the database facility where all the big black rats sat on their black seats with their black fingers working at their keyboards, setting off this and that and reclining every once in a while to watch the little model explosions on screen pop in and out of existence. _I hope he makes it._ Not just for his own sake, for the sake of not having his parts plastered against the walls and floor. He wanted to have those black rats covered in red, wished he could be close enough to hear them squeal when their nest was raided. Once again he shivered, this time just to get his anxiety out. What was taking Bernard so goddamn long?

And, as if summoned by his mind, muffled gunfire reached Arthur's ears from a very long way off and not a second later the howling alarm sliced through the tunnels like a meat cleaver. He had the urge to stop, drop to his knees, cover his ears, and wail along with it, sure that his eardrums had burst. But the Organization men began to swarm, as if deaf and guided by instinct alone, toward the gates, a call to arms, and Arthur, playing the part, followed just as mindlessly.

Daylight was a disk no bigger than a halved melon at the end of the passage when there was a shrill scream and Arthur whipped his head around to see a Resistance fighter yank his knife out of an Organization soldier, his body tumbling listlessly to the ground mere seconds before his comrades'. The traitors among them were eating holes in their ranks by dropping them like the flies they were. Screams, gurgles, gasps, dying wheezes—all bouncing off the dank walls and music to Arthur's ears. His mind was in a haze, as if refusing to accept the fact that everything they had been through, what seemed years and years of agonizing turmoil, had all come down to this one moment of a bloody, Romanesque free-for-all.

_Morituri te salutant._

A soldier came flying at him, and it took Arthur a few heart-stopping seconds to identify him. But the blank look in the man's eyes, the almost mechanical way he reached for and aimed his gun was enough—Arthur wasted no time plunging the length of his knife into his gut.

The soldier gave a wet cough before stumbling out of Arthur's line of vision, and the Briton took a few steps into the fray before he was met with another rat. He downed this one the same as the last, and the one after. Weapons were out and loaded now, the rest of the Organization recruits recognizing a coup, but Arthur still met them with his dripping blade. For every man he came across, every rat that tried to down him, he gave a few more stabs, drew more blood. Ludwig found him with a fist curled into one of the men's infamous turtlenecks while the other jabbed the knife into the stomach of the man it belonged to over and over, twenty times. Arthur nearly attacked Ludwig when he entered the corner of his eye.

"We need to move," the German said, as if in reminder. Arthur stood there for a second, staring down at the man whose belly he'd just opened, and if nothing else felt an even more intense rage. These men were brainwashed, yes, but they stood in the way of all the good the world used to be, and that alone was unacceptable.

Without a word they moved through the crowd of the dead and the dying. A Resistance fighter received a bullet to the chest and staggered before tackling the soldier who shot him to the ground. The Resistance troops had been ordered to protect the personified nations above everything else. If they were to die, then the fighting would have been for naught.

Despite their efforts to shield them, Arthur and Ludwig were constantly losing contact within the crowd, forced to make a quick sidestep to avoid a barrage of lead or duck to escape an angled slash of a blade. Once, Arthur moved too late and was nearly gutted. He felt the sharp metal slice his side, felt warmth well from the wound, but he kept pushing forward, determined not to fall. To be cut down by such sewer filth would simply not do. He was better than that, and everyone who was counting on him to return expected better. His ankle was grabbed by one of the soldiers bleeding out below him and he retaliated with a kick to his skull that laid him out on the floor again, drowning in his own pool of blood.

He knew it was risky, after having reacted to such extremity the last it was used, but Arthur reached out with his mind, tapping on the reserves of his magic to sense Ludwig's location. He found the man within half a minute, the German lowering his gun as an Organization soldier crumpled to the ground. Much of the tunnel crossroads was clear now, the adjoining passages echoing with shouts and retreating feet.

Arthur stared after an opposition soldier, watching his black rat tail slip around a corner. The Briton's eyes narrowed and his fingers traced the butt of the weapon at his side. "They're getting away." His voice was guttural with a seething hate.

"I know," Ludwig replied. Only a few of the Organization's soldiers remained, abandoned by their comrades to be cut down by Resistance forces. "They are running because they are being ordered to regroup. Where I don't know, but we must clear the tunnels of their filth before they have the chance to gather again."

Alarm flashed through Arthur then, dominating his mind even more so than wrath for a few adrenaline-fueled seconds. "We are to split up?" He studied Ludwig's gaze and found imprints of utter mental exhaustion. The tendrils still detected that ever present echo of _Feliciano_. The German's red-splotched hands curled into fists.

"Ja, it is for the best." He met Arthur's eyes then. "You take the left tunnel and I will take the right. If everything works out as planned, we will meet up at the Expansion Center. I will instruct Shawn to guard the gate should any Organization soldiers be ordered to march back from their posts or training outside." Arthur nodded, taking only a few steps, back turned, before he heard, "Remember what you're here for, Arthur. Your mission may be to free hostages, but you also need to stay alive. Do not do anything rash."

Arthur didn't reply, only let the words slosh around in his mind as he ran. Only ten minutes had passed since the coup had begun, ten minutes that seemed an hour, so Arthur was surprised to hear Todd's voice cut through the static in his earpiece.

 _"I'm in, I repeat, I'm in!"_ More static, muffled gunfire. _"Defenses are set to go off. Arthur, you are approaching one on your right. Turn down the upcoming passage and don't stop. Copy?"_

Arthur pressed his fingers to the earpiece. _"Copy that."_ And he dashed down the indicated tunnel, barely getting a quarter of the way down before an eruption of white-hot heat rushed up the passage, rumbling and spilling rubble. Arthur coughed, a thick cloud of dust chasing him, trying to swallow him up and choke him. It was only then he was aware that a group of Resistance troops were tailing him, having followed to clear out the tunnels with him. Their presence was realized as some of their screams were muffled by falling concrete or burned out as the fire cooked those who couldn't escape fast enough. Arthur didn't turn around, though, didn't stop. He was determined to hold up his part of the agreement, to see everything through to the end because he had come too far to stop now.

Defenses continued to go off, whether just behind him, a ways in front of him, or a distance off, shaking the whole system like one merciless earthquake. Screams, cries, gunshots, hacking—they all echoed down the tunnels at every turn, and there was no difference between the dying sounds of a Resistance fighter or an Organization soldier. Todd's voice kept guiding him through, Arthur's heart racing as fast as his legs, growing dizzy at the hairpin turns and legs wobbly at the sudden roar of explosions.

He heard other names as well, lungs contracting with every mention: _"Matthew, a defense to your left, turn here. Ludwig, lead your forces down the next tunnel, quickly! Kiku, get out of that tunnel as fast as you can. Red, Feliciano, don't go down that way, take another route. Dan, there's another defense there. Disable it and send me its code."_

_"Disabled. Code is 245 Papa 34 Foxtrot, Tango, Bravo."_

_"Copy… yes, another down! Should be one just ahead—Matthew, Kiku, pick up the pace and go left."_

And so on.

Until Arthur heard something that made him stop dead in his tracks. An explosion close by, just to the southwest. His troops stopped with him and did not question, just listened; listened to the horrible sound of thousands of pounds of concrete crumble and rain down into a nearby passage, making the ground beneath their feet shudder for minutes on end. Arthur's lungs were once again shriveled in his chest, praying that Todd's voice would not return for a few moments at least. But then it did, and Arthur's heart lurched. _"Kiku? Kiku, do you copy?"_

_"… H-hai."_

_"Where's Matthew? I can't see him on the map."_

_"…"_

_"Kiku? Kiku?"_

_"The tunnel collapsed,"_ came the panicked response. _"There is a pile of rubble… I-I can't see him. I lost him."_

 _Oh no._ Arthur stood there, shaking and feeling more helpless than he ever had. Matthew was trapped, and where was _he_? Running away, toward the center, away from Matthew who was probably suffocating. Todd's voice was a sharp jab to Arthur's ear.

_"Arthur, keep going. I disabled the defenses for this tunnel. You're clear to the Expansion Center."_

_"But… Matthew, I…"_

_"Remember your mission, Arthur,"_ was Ludwig's gruff response, and Arthur tore his feet away and began running once more, leaving his breath and every hope of a rescue effort behind as he did.

He rounded a corner, his troops following, not saying a word to them, not needing to. Surely they would have dragged him kicking and screaming to the Expansion Center if he'd so much as set foot in the direction of the tunnel collapse. But he hated it. He hated not being allowed to do as he wanted—that's what they were fighting for, the right to have their voices heard. So, in a stroke of witless thought he stole around a corner and rushed ahead only to dash into a tunnel to his right, ducking behind rubble as his confused troops moved past him. They were kept busy calling out to him, searching, as Arthur moved off, intent upon looping around and going to where he heard the tunnel collapse. As much as he regretted leaving his men behind, he couldn't allow yet another nation to die by the hands of the Organization, especially not crushed and alone beneath a pile of rocks. Matthew deserved better than that.

No sooner had he cleared the tunnel in which he had hidden than he heard Todd's voice, harsh and reprimanding on the other end. _"Arthur, what the hell do you think you're doing? Your place is—"_

The line went dead.

And Arthur thought nothing of it, was grateful for it, as he snatched the earpiece from him and flung it to the ground. _I've been through more hell than you can imagine, centuries of turmoil and unrest,_ he thought scathingly. _I'll be damned if I let some drunken computer hack tell me where my place is._

Another tunnel, devoid of anything but true rats fleeing the battle, and he began to get nervous. Was he lost? How far had he gone? That earpiece was lying somewhere probably gnawed on by the evacuating rodents or crushed by a heavy foot, the only link to the location of the Expansion Center, or anything. Instead of stopping or turning back, he continued on, shooting down any opposing soldiers he saw, Matthew's face a constant presence behind his eyes.

Another tunnel, another Organization soldier, and Arthur aimed at his back as he moved against the far wall, just another rat to kill. But then he heard crying—a child's cry, a child's beg, and he changed his route, raced over.

"S-stop! No! L-let me g-go!"

The Organization soldier didn't say a word. Arthur approached him, weapon raised and ready, and saw the man tear off the child's skirt. He held her wrists in one large, leather-bound hand, twisting her around and pressing her face into the wall.

"Stop, no!" she yelled before her voice broke and she began sobbing. "Please, let me go. Take me back to the Center! I p-promise, I won't run away again! Please!"

When the soldier's hand trailed to his waist, fingers poised to remove the belt there, Arthur shot at his leg.

 _"Fuck!"_ he swore, legs giving out. The girl in front of him squirmed, her wrists still held tight to the wall, pale, frightened face turning to see blood drip onto the floor. She couldn't have been more than six or seven. Fire coiled in Arthur's gut, and he shot the soldier again, this time in his lower back, forcing him to release the girl, who staggered and whimpered. Arthur walked up and scowled down at the hunched figure.

"They teach you to rape little girls in this Fellowship of Man?" he asked bitterly. "What a wonderful world they want to create. They didn't allow you to do it before, but now—this must be a paradise for scum like you."

He shot the man again, in the chest, and the soldier wheezed and toppled onto his side, glaring his blank glare, belt loose and pants hanging low. Arthur was intent upon leaving him there in that deserted tunnel to bleed out slowly, turning and beckoning for the girl who stood shivering and staring with eyes as wide and white as eggs a few feet away. She cringed at him and back away.

"What he did was wrong," Arthur told her, holding out his hand. He had put his gun away, but he found the girl staring at it as it rested in the holster at his side. "I'm not going to hurt you. I'm here to help you. Do you know where your mum is, love?"

The girl's eyes lifted from the gun to him, and, slowly, she nodded.

"I'll take you to her. I promise. Come on."

A long minute passed during which the girl and Arthur just stared at each other, and then the child hesitantly walked toward him, keeping a far distance between her and the fallen Organization soldier, who seemed to have passed out. She took his hand with her tiny one, smeared with grime from the sewer tunnel wall she had been forced against, and suddenly Arthur forgot that he was lost, that the whole reason he had become lost was because he had the intention to save Matthew. He knew he would eventually find the Expansion Center and the girl's mother, even if it took him years.

"Let's go." He lifted the girl and held her, allowing her to cling to his front. "Do you remember where you came from?"

She nodded again, pointing. Arthur moved in the indicated direction, but then he heard the blast of a gun behind him, and he had to make a quick decision about which direction he should move in. He chose a step to the right, correct, but not far enough; a bullet tore through his back and out of his chest. The girl screamed and writhed, and he nearly dropped her. The bullet had thankfully missed her, but Arthur was bleeding as he ran, the Organization soldier behind him waking from his feigned sleep and attempting to gun him down.

The girl's screams were ear-piercing, little nails digging through his shirt and into his skin. "Hold on," he kept telling her as lead whizzed past them, growing ever closer with every shot. "Hold on, hold on."

The end of the tunnel seemed too far away, and Arthur's body seemed to be moving far too slowly. But yes, he was almost there, almost, just a few more steps and then they would both be out of range…

The _click_ below his feet seemed louder than even the gunshots behind him, and Arthur barely had time to look down before he was falling through the floor—yes, falling, he made clear to his addled mind—into a blackness, as if he was falling through the earth. The girl's screams stopped for a moment in sheer confusion and terror before continuing in a new, sharper decibel. Together they plunged through the dark, leaving the tunnels, light, and explosions behind. They were falling for too long it seemed, but it was all too soon when they hit the bottom, Arthur's head cracking off the hard floor as the girl flew out of his arms, his eyes clouding over with a new sort of blackness.

* * *

Translations:

 _Morituri te_ _salutant_ -Those who are about to die salute you. (Not really a translation more like one of those universal Latin sayings like _carpe diem_. The full saying is _Ave, Imperator, morituri te salutant_ which means the same thing but with "Hail, Emperor" at the beginning. It's basically what gladiators shouted before competing to kill each other).

A Word From the Writer: Fuck, man, what's with all this bad luck flying around? Lol, I literally _just_ finished this chapter, I'm such a lazy fuck. So what we have here is everyone passing out and the floor somehow disappearing below your feet. Just the usual crazy stuff. So as of now the possible death count goes: Russia, Canada, and England. Russia could die by being blown up and practically flayed by fire, Canada could be crushed by rubble, and England could quite possibly have a dent in his head from hitting the floor so hard. Just weigh each possibility there.

On another note, I meant to tell you in previous chapters about the mention of one character during Italy's spiritual visit with the dead countries. If you go back through, you will see written _" _Feliciano's eyes followed the hand patting the dog's head, and they trailed upward to meet a face he had never seen. Dark hair, bells intertwined, and piercing blue eyes. She merely nodded in acknowledgement, her gaze dark and rueful."__ Yup. It's Penny. If you can't figure out why she wears bells in her hair, google "Philadelphia" and "bell" and see what you get (ignore all the stupid advertising that pops up, it's historical! Or maybe the ads just attack me...?).

More possible deaths next time!


	109. Awry

**Well, now you're fucked.  
**

Warning: Violence, weapons, fight scene, gore, potential character deaths.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

_"You hold in your hands the future of the world."_

—Raymond Poincare

**Awry**

The jockeys brace, thighs stiff, crops at the ready. They await the blast of the starting gun.

Francis would have taken off with them, except he had no steed.

It didn't sound like a gunshot—more like a pop, really. A distant pop that Francis originally thought was just another training exercise being conducted further off. Nothing that concerned him; eyes forward, blank stare, hands clasped behind his back, feet spread just so, another toy soldier among the lifeless, plastic ranks. Behind him loomed the Goliath tank, within which he knew Ivan to be sitting and brooding, just as he himself was. His eyes, in a fit of occasional anxiety, went from Resister to Resister, noting the pattern of infiltration and calculating his escape route when compared to several different scenarios. No one noticed his off-key antics; the rest were too preoccupied indulging in their sheeplike staring, regarding the Unit Commander who stood at the head of the sea of black perfection as if he were a shepherd. Wolves were among their ranks, dressed in their same black wool. They would be ambushed in a heartbeat. Yet all that Francis could think about was that these sheep were not tame. They had horns, really _big_ horns, that could break ribs and gouge bellies just as well as any predator with claws and teeth. The wolves of the Resistance would have to devour them in small, cautious portions.

" _Todd." Francis had been preoccupied glancing occasionally to Arthur or Matthew. When he returned his eyes to the scene before him, he found Red's narrowed gaze staring with exasperation back at him. "Todd," she repeated while Francis tried to look apologetic, "is one of the most essential parts of this plan. He's our only clear shot at accessing the database and keeping the majority of our troops alive by disabling the Organization's defenses. You, Francis, will be in charge of getting him where he needs to go," she tapped a place on the map that was boldly circled with arrows leading to and from, "here. Technical Headquarters. From what I've seen it's heavily guarded, and I expect more defenses will surface once the fighting begins to get particularly bloody. After you get him there, you must defend him while he accesses the database." She raised her gaze to Francis, heavy-eyed and grave. "If you fail to deliver Todd to HQ, then the whole operation could go bust."_

_Francis stared for a moment, stiff with foreboding. He could no longer meet those eyes that demanded so much of him. "I will tr—non, I will get Todd to HQ." His heart pounded. He had decided. He was bound. There was no turning back._

_Red's shoulders seemed to slump a bit, as if relieved of a great weight. "Good. Bernard will take his snipers and infiltrate the Washington Monument. When he has a clear shot up in that tower, he will fire on the Unit Commander. After the guy drops, it's time to move."_

The pressure was extreme.

There was so much silence that Francis fancied he heard his own heart attempting to dislodge his ribs in its desperate bid for freedom. He swallowed and hoped no one could hear. These men seemed so inhuman and he wouldn't be surprised if they could smell fear. Thoughts began to rush into his head as the empty seconds ticked by… thoughts that he had been trying to quell in order to banish his distracting concern. But how inhuman would he be if he chose to forget how Matthew had been sent with Kiku deep into a tunnel chock full of perils, how Arthur, ever so determined, may soon be standing beneath a loose slab of sewer ceiling without any regard for his own safety? He spotted Todd standing in his blacks a row ahead and to the right. Francis's eyes could have burned a hole in the back of his skull with how closely he was watching him.

 _Pop._ Just that simple little noise and not a muscle so much as twitched. Francis did, but he received no attention for it. With his freshly-cut hair and nervous fiddling, how could he be anything but just another rookie? Francis stiffened himself out again and continued to wait, only realizing that he was supposed to be listening for some sort of signal when the shepherd before the vast crowd of black-woolen sheep stumbled as if slapped, losing his footing and breath as well, collapsing onto the ground. At first no one dared put even a toe out of line, and then some universal realization struck them. Dozens of hands darted down to dozens of holsters.

And that was when the pack commenced their hunt. The sheep were too slow in their responses, too unaware. They had no idea who among them to attack, so conditioned were they to trust black turtle necks and gray spiral insignias. The Resisters downed those closest to them before the opposing troops' fingers could brush their weapons. A colorful array of terrible noises erupted all around him, but Francis, too caught in the surrealism of the situation, made no move to join the Resisters. He was sufficiently defended, he noted. Red had made sure to dictate thoroughly that all nations must be protected at all costs. Men gathered around him in a dilapidated semi-circle with the tank acting as a rear wall, the former firing round after round into the now surging crowd of Organization troops. Revolution was a familiar sight to Francis, but this wasn't revolution. This was evolution at its most raw.

_"Ah!"_

The shout caught Francis's attention and he didn't have to look around for long before one of the Resisters defending him crumpled to the ground. He just lay there curled up with his limbs all tucked in—like a dying spider. Fluid rattled in his lungs before it was dribbling out of his mouth in a shock of red. Francis tore his eyes from the soldier to see another rushing up to fill his place.

"Sir, where are you going?" a man asked. He was battered and bruised already, and it was hard to tell whether the blood that splotched his front was his or someone else's.

Francis had spun around and started forward, rounding the edge of the tank. His fists were painfully white-knuckled. "It is time to move." _I refuse to stand and bear witness to slaughter for the sake of my safety without me lifting a finger to help._ But that was too long to say aloud. He spotted an Organization soldier targeting him from afar. He flattened himself against the parched ground and tried not to look too long at the dead and dying faces that surrounded him.

His troops followed dutifully, and Francis loathed every pained noise that escaped them when hit with Organization rounds. He didn't want these men to die for him, not when it was his fault that they had to. And, if Francis were to say that witnessing firsthand the workings of mortality was wondrous, it would be a damnable lie.

He rounded the chained treads of the tank and could finally stand. The Organization troops were still busy going after the Resisters to think of the armored giant as any sort of threat. After all, it wasn't moving, wasn't giving any sign of offense. Worry coursed as adrenaline through his veins when he heard no movement inside. If Ivan had died, what did that mean for him?

Response from the tank was taking too long, and Francis decided that he must take the lead instead of waiting and counting the minutes. He abandoned the tank and hoped he was making the right decision, for a moment believing he heard a sort of bump come from within, but there was Todd, having followed him, standing at the ready. _I have to move._

No one was pursuing them—yet. There were enough Resisters still standing to keep the opposition busy, but as soon as a large group of men broke off from the fight attention was redirected to them. The Organization troops moved like one huge animal complete with rounds of hollow-points and bushels of explosives. When it moved too close, a row of Resisters stopped to fire. Francis didn't look back, but he certainly heard the number of men shot through on both sides.

A mile. That was how far he had to run. Compared to their months-long journey by foot, it should have been nothing. But he had to stop or veer off several times to avoid a chest full of lead, and every rocking _boom_ made his legs quake like disturbed gelatin. Then a mile in the midst of gunfire seemed much more difficult than fifty miles through the snow in the middle of nowhere.

Francis kept track of Todd constantly. Whenever a Resister got between him and Francis, the latter sought out the quickest route around in order to get Todd back into his sights. For a man pushing midlife, he seemed to be the fastest out of all of them, eyes pointed forward, completely focused on the scorched and battered building that was the Archives-turned-HQ in the distance. He never faltered or digressed, as if all the brash sounds around him were nothing more than rolling thunder.

Or perhaps that thunder was the sound of tank treads. Francis stole a glance behind him amid raining lead to see that the M1 Abram was finally on the move, trailing a hundred feet behind and positioning to block the hail of bullets. He couldn't be sure if Ivan was guiding it, but part of him was reassured by the fact that the massive gun wasn't targeting anyone.

Francis refused to wait for the tank; he already had the lead, far ahead of the tailing Organization troops now preoccupied with the wall of Ivan's Resisters. Francis took that as his cue to continue on, rushing down the battered streets that resembled more of a moonscape than anything earthly. The buildings around them crouched, watching, like crumbling, blackened beasts threatening to spill Organization troops from their mouths. The thought should have scared Francis, should have made him slow, but all he kept thinking about were the others in the tunnels, relying on him ensure their safety. He kept their profiles in his mind's eye: Kiku, Alfred, Yao, Ludwig, Feliciano, Red, Matthew, Arthur. Although his lungs ached from taking such heavy breaths, he muttered the names, all the while telling his burning muscles that he was almost there, that when they arrived at HQ he could rest.

If only it was that easy.

Francis's premonition erupted into reality in the form of bullets cutting through the air in front of him. It hurt worse to skid to a halt than to run, but the discomfort was a nagging sensation in the back of his mind among the horror spilling out from the buildings, racing down the roads and spaces between like some great horde. He was surrounded by Resisters and while they took time to slow and aim, the opposition paid back their betrayal twofold. Volley after volley of lead whistled through the air, penetrating the bodies of Francis's personal guard. They dropped around him like hunted pigeons ready for collecting, and this time he couldn't look away. Todd was the first to see him reach for his weapon and the man slowed his pace to match Francis's.

"Go ahead!" Francis yelled, indignant. He fired at the oncoming troops, the line of Resisters before him having already been taken out. He downed one, two, three Organization soldiers before more Resisters rushed up to fill the places of the fallen. "Don't stop! Keep going!"

But Todd only slowed further. Francis braced his lungs for yet another shout when he noticed that the Technical Headquarters were surrounded by armed Organization guards having just run out of the Archives, fresh and ready for combat, some of their comrades lying dead at their feet. _Alfa,_ Francis suspected. _But where are they? They were supposed to take out everyone around the Archives and in the surrounding buildings._ Worry gnawed in the pit of his belly. He watched as the men lowered their semi-automatics, but he could do nothing but run. With Organization men behind him and sweeping up on him from all sides, Francis had no idea what to do. Luckily, his feet made the decision for him, and the next thing he knew he was turning on his heel and running into a building adjacent to the Archives, still spilling dust and debris from its ceiling. But he could hardly care. He rushed through, constantly cutting himself short, back-tracking, until he located stairs and went up. He could finally rest when on the third story, and it was only then that he realized his men—a group of around two dozen including, thankfully, Todd—had followed him.

"At the windows," Francis directed as soon as he'd found his breath again. "Vite!"

No sooner had the men crouched down beneath the frames than Francis finally picked up the hum of jet engines and shortly after a close explosion shook the building.

Francis was blinded by a burst of white, and a blast split his eardrums. Bits of ceiling rained down on him, and a large chunk smashed onto the floor just beside his foot. Heat seared his arms and face for a minute at least, stumbling back, and in half that time he could see again. He blinked, eyes watering, regarding the blown-out windows, glass-littered floor, and men sprawled and groaning beneath them. Some were dead, some were dying, some had shards of glass skewering their faces. Those who were still able to perform rose back into a crouch, peeking out of the windows.

"What was it?" Francis asked, but he knew all too well what it was, was almost certain who it had been meant for.

"A shell," one of the men replied. His voice was gruff and wheezy. He had glass embedded in his throat. "It hit the tank."

Francis swallowed, sweat beading on his forehead. "The condition?"

"Destroyed, sir. Scrap metal now, and it's burning."

Francis wanted to ask if there were any bodies lying around, but the guards at the Archives chose that moment to open fire. One man at a window had the side of his head taken off before the Resisters could respond.

Francis strode over to an occupied window and retrieved his weapon from his side. The soldier already there stared and opened his mouth to protest. But Francis didn't let him speak. He located a guard three stories below and laid him out. He locked onto another target just before being forced to slide back behind the safety of the wall as rounds were directed at him. The soldier beside him took up aim then, and they alternated as they worked to take out the guards.

 _Ivan is dead,_ Francis thought, biting his lips, tearing off skin and sucking on the blood. _Ivan is dead, Ivan is dead._ He kept saying the words over and over again in his head, every repetition making him squeeze the trigger all the harder. _If Ivan is dead, I could die too._

"Sir," the soldier said in a tone that suggested he had been addressing Francis for a few minute at least. "Sir, they're clear. You don't need to shoot anymore."

Francis's hands were so stiff on his gun that it was a struggle to lower it, to take his finger off the trigger guard. He nodded. "D'accord, move."

Only when they reached the ground floor did they truly see what damage the shell had done. Part of the ceiling had crumbled into a pile in front of the smashed doors, and they were forced to clamber two-by-two through the gap it provided until they were once again gathered out onto the street.

The whole stretch of avenue from the Department of Commerce to the Archives was scorched, burning, or in ruins. One of the museums had gone lopsided, two of its columns having been blown to bits during the blast, sending one corner of its roof smashing into the stone steps. A radius of roughly one-hundred feet of blackened roadway surrounded the tank, the remnants of which were now unidentifiable, swallowed by dancing yellow flames. Bodies of those that hadn't made it out of range in time littered the street—part of which now resembled a shallow, burned mud hole—all in varying stages of death or burning, but Francis did not have time to pinpoint Ivan, or rather make sure he was not among the dead or injured. A soldier tugged him by the arm, motioning to the Archives and then to the Organization men, most of whom had disappeared just before the explosion, now regrouping just down the avenue.

Francis took off with his troops, now reduced to a fair and battered dozen, and he called for Todd to stop just as he reached the building and appeared as if he would venture inside without guard. Impatient, Todd waited, jumping from foot to foot in an attempt to quell his anxiety as Francis and the Resisters stepped over the bodies of the guards and entered the Archives.

It was eerily silent in the main hall, and Francis had reason to be disconcerting. Not half a minute after their arrival and more guards were streaming out from every available archway and door, taking aim and firing in an unorganized flurry. But Francis knew it was anything but unorganized. He and the Resisters had been expecting them to line up and wait until everyone was ready to shoot. As a result, more of his dozen fell, and the Resisters were down to seven by the time all of the present guards had been killed.

There were more waiting for them down the center hall; noise had been coming from that direction, so they'd followed it. Sure enough, tall doors and a few more guards were what separated them from the database facility. They were fairly easy to kill. They were prepared, but unskilled. Apparently they were the new recruits, not yet willing enough to risk their lives for the Organization, so they had remained behind while the others had attacked and been killed. The Resisters dispatched the rookies without much fuss, though one did rattle out a hearty stream of curses before he was killed. Afterward, Francis stood before the doors, staring upward.

"I have a key," Todd said out of nowhere, and the Frenchman's gaze snapped to him. As promised, the man held up said key and advanced toward the doors to open them.

Francis frowned in suspicion. "Where did you get the key?"

"When the Council found out I was familiar with programming and software, they assigned me to work the database for a while. But we rotate out every month, or once every update, just to make sure no one knows everything about the database. That's information only the Overlord has the right to know."

"And they did not notice a key missing?"

Todd gave a sly smile as he quietly slipped the key into the keyhole and turned it. "I had it molded. This was during the start of the Organization, before they became the FoM, so they didn't suspect as much as they do now. I borrowed it and returned it without any alarm." The lock clicked, and they all took in one collective breath. "No guards should be in here," Todd told them in hushed tones, as if afraid someone who had heard the lock might be listening on the other side. "Only authorized personnel are allowed, unless something has changed."

 _Let's hope not,_ Francis mused as the Resisters pushed open the doors.

There they were. Little black rats all in a line, just clicking away. Francis expected an immediate response of violence, if not a simple greeting. But no, they all remained where they were, around thirty of them, seated, eyes trained on flickering monitors, occasionally glancing up at the huge projection that made up the entire upper portion of the wall. Another man sat in a large chair facing the projection, hands neatly folded in his lap, eyes unblinking. He must have been the supervisor.

'Must have been', because the Resisters wasted no time killing them, Todd taking the place of one after pushing his body off the seat. Half of the Resisters began at the end of each row, shooting the men in the back of the head as they went down the line while Todd logged into the system. The programmers did not respond, only gurgled or wheezed or groaned and then died. Their duty was to monitor the database and nothing else. They had served their purpose. It was one of the strangest sights Francis had ever seen, how the men, hearing the gunshots, didn't even flinch, barely moved when they were shot. These weren't men. They were empty shells.

_What has the Overlord done to you?_

Todd's voice buzzed into existence in Francis's earpiece as well as the earpieces of many others— _"I'm in, I repeat, I'm in!"—_ and he set about warning the others of the defenses he would be unable to decommission in time, fingers working vigorously at the keys, eyes on the model layout of the sewer system on the projection. Francis began to hear and feel the explosions coming from the system below, and he hoped and prayed each one would not be the one that would kill Arthur, or Matthew, or anyone he cared about.

Another blast. Then he heard Matthew's name.

_"Where's Matthew? I can't see him on the map."_

Francis's mouth fell open and his heart took a one-way trip up to his mouth, but before he could say anything, a Resister that had been posted on watch outside came rushing in. "More troops!" he wheezed, breathless. "Organization!"

That was all they needed to hear before they were surging toward the doors, but they didn't arrive in time to keep the first few men of the opposition from slipping in. The Resister who had been on watch, already panicked and weary from his run, fumbled and was promptly shot. _Six left_ , Francis thought. He killed the Organization soldier who had killed the Resister—a clean shot to the head. Another shot rang out in retaliation, and another Resister dropped. _Five._ He moved too slow to shoot another and received a shot to the shoulder. He staggered and would have been killed if a Resister hadn't noticed and downed the Organization soldier before he could finish Francis off.

"You okay?" the Resister asked.

Francis nodded, feeling warmth trickle down his arm. "Ouais, I'm fine."

There were only three remaining before Todd could afford to remove himself from his work and toss one of them the key. By then the first wave of Organization soldiers had ebbed off, but Francis could hear more, a _lot_ more, coming. The Resister with the key jammed it into the hole and locked the doors. Mere seconds later and the Organization was banging at them.

Francis's heart was still beating very fast behind his ribs, but he calmed a bit, even when he continued to hear the noises on the other side of the doors. He lowered his weapon, the ache in his hand that came with gripping it so tightly wearing off, when he heard an ear-splitting _crack_. He whipped around, gun instinctively raised, to see one of the Organization soldiers he had taken for dead, reanimated, holding in his trembling hands a gun of his own. And it was aimed right at Todd's back.

Francis finished the soldier off with a shot to the head and a few more in his back just to confirm that he was gone. He then raced over to check on Todd, and the blood began to rush in his ears again.

Todd was slumped over the keys, hands and fingers splayed, a red bullet hole leading straight into his back. On the projection, explosion icons bloomed.

* * *

Translations:

D'accord-Okay

A Word From the Writer: So... yeah, if you're wondering why I'm posting like... hmm, about two hours past my scheduled time it's because I didn't actually start writing these chapters till Thursday (because I've been writing smut, honhonhon). And then it was mostly Friday I was working on it (got this one done that day) and then I had to do this one before the post time on Saturday, but then I found out that I had a bunch of other stuff to do so... yeah, I really need to manage my time better. I keep telling myself that, but I never will, haha.

Okay! So, we have France here actually fighting. Yes, fighting. With a gun and stuff. And with his hair cut short. Wow, just a bunch of anomalies today! Anywho, Team Alfa has apparently run into some trouble, seeing as they aren't where they're supposed to be. And there still may be good possibilities that Russia and Canada are dead. I've already planned who I'm gonna kill off, so... no convincing me! On another note, Todd is dead so pretty much everyone in the tunnels is screwed. Nice one, France (just kidding, you know I love you, mon amant~).

More death and destruction awaits!


	110. Divide

**Dammit, America!  
**

Warning: Violence, weapons, fight scene, gore, mentioned Nichu, potential character death.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

" _Our greatest glory is not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall."_

—Confucius

**Divide**

Yao stood in pristine formation, hair short and body covered in black. The wind on the back of his neck was so foreign, yet he cherished it. He may never get to feel it again.

He was standing among the soldiers in one of the museum's second stories. He barely breathed, as it seemed the others were attempting to do, and his eyes once again darted down to the Archives, in front of which stood a phalanx of guards, among them Alfred. For once the man was completely still.

Yao cleared his thoughts… or at least tried to. The breeze whispering over his nape reminded him of Kiku's lips and fingers. Soft, and inviting were those lips, and dainty but strong were the hands. He wished with everything in him that the man could be here, standing beside him instead of in those tunnels, but then he wished that he wasn't. So many things could go wrong, Yao could see them now, playing out in his head like a tape roll. He had been around long enough to pinpoint potential flaws in plans and formations, and from the look of things now they were going to be in for a very bumpy ride.

Of course he had informed Red of this, and of course she hadn't listened.

"Someone _needs to monitor the avenue," Red insisted with more than a hint of annoyance. Yao simply stared at her hopelessly. He was getting nowhere with her. "I don't care how it concentrates the Resistance in mostly one area—we need everyone we can get at HQ. Your mission as part of Team Alfa is to take out anyone surrounding it and keep all other Organization fighters_ away. _Yes, Ivan and Francis will converge on the site, but HQ is a rat's nest of guards, and if back up is called by the Council, they will be directed there. This site is invaluable to us and it will be the center of our entire mission. As so, we will require most of our forces to be present_ there. _Scouts will be posted in some of the taller buildings to make sure no one tries to ambush you, and you will have Evans keeping eyes and ears out as well. Aerial attacks will not be possible because of your close proximity to the Archives and everything inside it. If it's safety you're worried about during war, don't include yourself in it."_

Throughout Red's entire condescending speech, Yao had been close to slapping her. Alfred's insolence as a young nation was bad enough, but now a _state_ was telling him how war worked? He would have laughed if his and everyone else's lives hadn't depended on this mission. Risk had its place in wartime, but it was a joker card that, depending on the game play, could make or break the players. One had to know when to indulge in risk and how best to utilize it. Then again Red may just be acting difficult for the simple fact that she detested him, which, compared to all of her other dislikes, was not very surprising.

Either way, he was still pissed.

 _Her father may die because of it,_ Yao mused, eyes projecting forward once more. _Kiku may die._ Everyone could.

Arguing with Red, however, was not an option. She was the head of the entire operation, and it would have been unwise to push her lest he be put in a worse position than he already was. But he had given his opinion and advice regardless. Now all there was to do was to wait and see how the tides would turn.

Yao had no idea what the signal was that would announce the start of the coup, but he had an earpiece so he assumed it would be given over the channel. He waited and listened, forcing himself to take slow, deep breaths. It would not do to panic, not even when he knew Kiku to be somewhere in the tunnels waiting just as he was, waiting for Todd and Dan to disable the defenses. But Todd was positioned a mile away. In battle, it could easily have been ten. _I should have told him I loved him,_ Yao thought ruefully. He should have taken Kiku's hand just as he had done before, whispering it to him before he kissed him on the cheek. If his intuition proved to be correct, he would never again see that adorable blush trail across Kiku's face, nor those wide brown eyes, demure just for him. The last he had seen Kiku all he had done was squeeze his hand. It seemed almost neglectful now.

Somewhere in the distance—Yao presumed a mile or so away—gunfire sounded. At first Yao thought nothing of it, instead attributing it to the start of the morning drill on the Ellipse. He was in the midst of wondering just how long the drill would continue before the coup began when a blast of static assaulted his ear and settled enough for him to hear a voice.

 _"Now,"_ was all it said, too short and quiet to hear exactly who it was.

But Yao chose not to wait to confirm like he knew he ought to; Kiku was somewhere down in those tunnels, and if the coup had truly begun then he had only so much time before the man was crushed by a tunnel collapse or dismembered by an explosion. Anything he could do to ensure that Todd could reach the database he would gladly commit to, even if it was against his better judgment.

He wasn't the only one to retrieve his knife and stab the man next to him. The Resisters that had been placed with him had heard the signal themselves and set to killing off as many Organization soldiers as they could. Yao yanked his blade out of the man he'd attacked and was nearly met with another to his throat before his reflexes kicked in and he made a neat cut just below the man's Adam's apple before the other's below could fall. Even with blood spurting from his throat, the soldier continued to come at him, and Yao had no other choice but to stab him until he had so many leaks he could do nothing but collapse facedown in his own mess.

Yao wiped some blood from his eye, his whole face feeling sticky with it, and he nearly jammed his knife into a Resister that had come to defend him. The man was young and wide-eyed, and Yao suddenly felt insulted.

"What are you doing?" he demanded, still brandishing his dripping knife.

The Resister glanced at him, nearly jumping at the sight of the weapon covered in red. "I-I… protecting you, sir."

Yao swept out an arm and shoved him away. "Go protect someone who needs protecting, báichī."

Yao heard him begin to protest, but he ignored him, opting instead to kick an Organization soldier busy with another Resister in the back of his knee. The man gave a startled yelp and he barely caught himself before his face could smash into the floor. Yao didn't give him time to look around and see who had felled him. He straddled the soldier, foot to either side of the man's shoulders, snatched him up by his hair, and slit his throat. _Just like a pig,_ Yao observed as the soldier gurgled and retched blood, the fluid rushing out of him in waves. _Humans we may be, but in the end we can all die like pigs._ And this soldier had been a fat, ripe one overdue for slaughter. It was easier, Yao found, for him to compare the soldiers to pigs as he killed them. Pigs were raised for one purpose, killed as a necessity, and if allowed to live they would devour every last morsel of food. Except it wasn't food the Organization would devour, it was the world.

The Organization raised their soldiers, conditioned them, sent them to slaughter. It was either oblige the slaughtering or become livestock themselves. No doubt the Overlord had already bred more pigs to take their places. As long as he had his army and his power, everyone else was expendable.

The amount of blood was incredible. The Resisters had been instructed to use their knives before their guns in order to save ammo, and now pools and smears of blood turned the floor red. It was almost impossible to tell whether Yao was walking over a lake of blood if anything else. An Organization soldier flew at him but slipped and fell into the fluids of his comrades. Yao decided that it would be wiser to use a gun than a knife from then on to prevent further spillage, and he planted a bullet between the soldier's shoulder blades to keep him trapped on the ground and writhing as he died. There was no need to waste anymore ammo than needed, and as far as Yao was concerned they deserved a slow death.

As soon as Yao had fired his weapon, a flurry of gunfire broke out, as if he had given the Resisters permission. Before, the Organization troops had been too overwhelmed and surprised to devote the time to reaching for, loading, and aiming their guns, and even in the midst of a gunfight they were just as strapped for time. A few managed to reply with their own volleys, mostly experienced shooters who managed to take out some less seasoned Resisters, and all at once some mutual understanding seemed to be reached and the remaining Organization troops rushed down the steps.

"Wait," Yao ordered as some Resisters moved to follow. The Chinaman walked over to the window and saw the soldiers flood the street below only to regroup and move bodily past the museum and out of sight. Across the road, the guards that had surrounded the Archives were gone, save the bodies that littered the front steps, either having disappeared inside or altogether retreated. Alfred was nowhere to be seen. _Except the Overlord would never allow them to retreat._ He frowned. Something was wrong here. _Damn Red._

Feet shuffled awkwardly across the room. "Sir?" one Resister ventured.

Yao didn't reply. Instead his eyes traveled down the street as far as he could see, and he could hear what, if his ears could be trusted, sounded like tank treads rumbling over crushed asphalt. So, Team Bravo was coming. But how long would it take them and what forces would they bring with them?

And, more importantly, where was Alfred? He was supposed to have taken out the guards in front of the Archives and left a squadron of Resisters in their place before taking a small group of men and scouring the place for the Core wherein the Overlord was assumed to be lurking. Alfred was gone, as planned, but where were his forces? Had they been chased off? Had they been taken out?

"Sir?" a Resister prompted.

Yao didn't say a word, suspicion beginning to permeate his mind. He turned to them. "We are going down to street. Have your weapons out and ready."

The Resisters stared at him as if he had just sprouted a fifth limb. "B-but, sir, the plan was—" one began.

"I know what the plan was," Yao cut in, starting at a brisk walk toward the stairs. A few steps down and the men were still staring after him. "But it seems we have problem. Half of our team is gone, and I don't know why. Half of you stay here to keep guard and other half will come with me to investigate."

Yao didn't wait for a response. He kept going down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and when he reached the bottom he was pleased to see that his orders had been followed. He led the way through the ruins of the museum, with its shattered glass, looted artifacts, and rubble-blocked halls, out onto the steps. He peered up at the sky, empty but for gray clouds blocking out the sun. It would snow soon. His eyes traveled up and down the stretch of massacred asphalt, wrecked buildings, and smashed pavement several times before he was forced to conclude that Alfred's troops had truly vanished. Trust Alfred to go running off on a tangent without informing anyone. It was truly predictable. Anger coiled within Yao at the thought that Alfred was behind all of this, that it would be his fault if Todd couldn't reach the database in time to save Kiku, or Matthew, or Arthur, or anyone down in the tunnels. They would all die because of his reckless decision, and Yao promised himself the next time he saw Alfred he would wring his neck.

The tank sounded closer now, and the Resisters were looking toward him for orders. It didn't matter if they wanted to come with him or not; they _had_ to, by Red's orders. Yao needed to be protected, and, as much as Yao hated the order, he now knew how to manipulate it to suit his own needs. Now he had troops that would do whatever he said and go with him wherever he went.

The whole portion of avenue was completely silent. Not even a bird chirped. The tank was still not in sight, but now he could hear gunfire loud and sharp, though still distant. Despite wanting to murder him, he decided that he may want to contact Alfred to be sure if he was still alive and to tell him to send some of his men up, wherever they were, to assist in the defense of the Archives. But no sooner had he touched his fingers to his earpiece than a bullet whizzed by his hand.

He spun around to see that the Organization troops had never truly run away. They had been _hiding_. And now Yao was the one being ambushed as his small group of eight Resisters were shot down before they could properly retaliate. And it was no surprise. The opposition soldiers were shooting all at once and from everywhere. It was nearly impossible to target one without the risk of being shot by another. Yao watched in horror and shame, whipping his weapon out and squeezing out two rounds that may or may not have struck their intended targets, but his entire guard was dead, and those in the building above were being dutifully dispatched by Organization troops that had infiltrated it, who were now staring out of the windows at him and aiming the barrels of their guns down at him. Yet Yao braced to fire another round. He was just as soon yelling as he was shot in his gun arm, the weapon flying out of his hand and skittering across the cratered road. Within moments, three Organization soldiers surrounded him.

Yao kept his head down, heart racing, a million thoughts of what he should do next running through his head. One soldier bent down to grab him from behind, and Yao instinctively struck out with his elbows, shoving the butterfly swords he'd place there earlier through his black sleeves and back into the man attempting to seize him. He caught the soldier in the gut, and the man reeled, wheezing, as the other two struggled to subdue the now evasive Yao. But the Chinaman was fast and limber, effectively avoiding them until the forgotten man he had stabbed shuffled up behind him and stuck a blade through his thigh.

Yao cried out and his leg locked up, useless with the pain shooting through it. He faltered and went down on one knee, trying with everything in him to get back up again. He came close, but one of the other soldiers produced his own knife and drove it into his pelvis. After that, Yao dropped to the ground and did not attempt to get back up.

One of the men did the work for him, snatching Yao up by his wounded arm, making him shout. His butterfly swords were wrestled from him, his hands were bound, and a gun was pressed to his temple. His earpiece was ripped from him and crushed by a black boot. Just one look told him that the soldiers knew exactly who he was.

"You will be coming with us," one said with a self-satisfied little smile as he and his comrades wrenched him around the building and through the crowd of identically smiling soldiers to a waiting helicopter. There was a gray spiral insignia stenciled crudely on the side with lettering as red as blood.

* * *

Translations:

báichī-idiot

A Word From the Writer: Phew! That was a writing marathon! These chapters may seem short, but trust me they took _forever_ to write. Stretching out battle scenes without including the same shit every time takes some calculation... that and I tend to get distracted by people, cats, food, general smutty fangirl thoughts, those little news thumbnails at the bottom of Bing every time I go to search something, GAH! Anyway, here it is. China's naturally a little peeved that America could just take off without telling him anything, which is something he would totally do, seeing as he's so hellbent on killing the Overlord that he may have forgotten the plan entirely. Nice. So what does Yao get? Captured. Well no, shot, then stabbed, _then_ captured. And China was in extreme kill mode the whole time, whoa. I didn't mean to write him all violent and ftw and shit but I was running on three hours of sleep and staring at a computer screen for that long makes you lose your focus. No, literally the words on my screen began to run together, and more than once I had to get up and take a walk around my house to shake off the drowsiness. And of course then I would get stuck petting my cats for ten minutes or rifling through my cabinets for food and by the time I got back to writing I'd want to write some smut. It's getting really bad. I'm going through lemon withdrawals.

All righty then. Now I can rest... or write some smut. How this got finished and posted today instead of Sunday can be mostly attributed to the fact that I promised myself I could write some lemon afterward. And now I will. THANK GOD.

You can try to tell me that I can post as late as I want, but I'll always take due dates for these chapters way too seriously. But procrastination is a whole other story... I have a rough draft for a research paper I've barely researched due by the end of next week that I have yet to start. Finish it late Thursday night? Probably. XD


	111. Voices

**Germany kicks some ass.**

Warning: Violence, gore, fight scene, weapons, sad stuff, GerIta.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

_"The world is not dangerous because of those who do harm but because of those who look at it without doing anything."_

—Albert Einstein

**Voices**

Ludwig wished with everything in him that he could speak to Feliciano. He could if he really wanted; just press his fingers to his earpiece and say the name he'd wanted to say aloud since they had departed the bunker. But he could not. The tunnels would echo his voice and render the guise of his black uniform useless.

He knew where the Italian was, but not knowing where he _would be_ was agonizing. Feliciano's tendency to distraction hovered stark in Ludwig's mind. He knew Red had meant well by splitting them up—as surely all he would worry about was Feliciano and only him if he was closer—and Feliciano was in a relatively docile part of the tunnels, but Ludwig hadn't received so much as a semblance of understanding from Red. The girl was fatigued and had other things on her mind, to be sure, but even when confronted with an account of Feliciano's habits, she had practically brushed the issue off.

" _Feli will be safe with me," Red assured with a brusque nod even as Ludwig stared with persisting unease. "It's pretty tame where we're headed. He'll also have an earpiece and his own guard. He won't get lost easily, I assure you."_

_Ludwig would have insisted on changing the plan to suit Feliciano's safety, but Red's eyes had lowered to the map of the sewer system and so did not see him open his mouth to speak._

_"_ _Now, Team Charlie…"_

It had been a miracle that Ludwig could listen to the rest of the plan for his worrying. He knew his concern was beginning to gnaw at his wits whenever his eyes returned to the table after several glances in Feliciano's direction to see Arthur fixing him with an exasperated stare. From then on, Ludwig had listened intently to everything 'Checkmate' entailed, but though he listened, Feliciano's name would slip into one of Red's sentences and he would have to quickly backtrack to understand, all the while longing to confirm that Feliciano was all right.

 _Of course he is all right,_ Ludwig mused as he paced back and forth as the plan called for, trying his best not to wring his gloved hands that slid, sweaty, in the leather. _He's as perceptive as a gnat._ But even as he thought this and many similar things, Ludwig knew it was false. He knew, as soon as he'd witnessed Feliciano crying in the bunker from the voices, that the man was not oblivious at all to what was going on around them and what _may_ happen. The Overlord had made sure of that.

Just the thought of the man made Ludwig's muscles bunch as if the Overlord was standing before him, smiling like the German knew he would, and he was going to give the bastard's face a permanent imprint of his knuckles. There was no doubt that Feliciano—sweet, innocent Feliciano who had himself barely done harm to anyone, not even known _how_ —was being targeted simply because he was quite possibly one of the last pure things in the world. And, if the Overlord's past actions could attest, he sought to sully whatever he knew he could never be. Such purity was dangerous; it lay outside the reach of his power, he couldn't control it. And what the Overlord couldn't control must be destroyed without a trace. Breaking down Feliciano's fragile mind was only the first step on a staircase that spiraled into Hell, and at any time the Overlord's impatience could grow to the extent that Feliciano may be pushed down to arrive broken and unsalvageable at the bottom. It was one thing to impose tyranny upon a world that was too fractured to wholly agree or fight back, but it was a whole other matter to specifically target someone who had no burning desire to directly oppose the Organization, who had barely opposed anyone without crying. It was cruel, it went against the very morals of humanity.

Then again, what was humanity anymore?

The question kept resurfacing in his mind, becoming ever more prominent with each Organization soldier that passed him, all blank stares and assembly-line strides. He fought to control his temper as another marched by, as if a wound-up figurine bound for a place its owner had directed it to. And the man walked on without question or complaint, just as a mindless toy would.

Ludwig decided to go over the plan in his head to keep his mind off of Feliciano. After all, Red knew the tunnels, had been living in them for longer than any of them had. Surely she would know how to keep Feliciano out of trouble.

He was on his fourth recitation when he heard it, loud as a knife in his ear: the sound of far-off gunfire. The wind-up toys began to swarm a minute after, interspersed with traitors.

As soon as Ludwig saw the first flash of red, he entered a state where he no longer thought, just did. His trained body had flipped the switch, jumped into the cockpit, and taken the yoke in a matter of a few seconds. He blinked once, and his knife was in his hand, turning with arm extended to catch an unsuspecting soldier in the chest. He watched with cold eyes that sought to provoke passion in their counterparts. But the man only stared at him, as if a walking corpse, and then he dropped down to the stained cement floor, the rest of him dying as his mind had months before. Ludwig stooped to wrench his knife free with renewed disgust. He and his fellow nations had worked so hard to build society, and now it had been obliterated and the people who had once lived within it were now nothing more than instinct-driven animals. So much had been undone.

Ludwig was in a haze as he fought his way to the convergence of the tunnels, anxious to see if Arthur had made it. Several soldiers met him along the way, some struck down by his personal guard and others dispatched by him alone. No matter the numbers, the men were still the same: distant looks, expressionless, rushing at him more out of necessity than a desire to kill him. He gladly met them, putting them down and further drenching his knife with red. After a time, their hollow faces unnerved him. Desperate to see at least a drop of feeling from the men who looked so much like himself, Ludwig kicked one in the shin and snatched him up by his hair when he started to wobble.

"I'm about to kill you," he practically shouted, "give me _something_!"

The man kept his gaze forward, looking past Ludwig into the fighting behind, hanging limp, as if having had given up since the start of his conditioning, waiting to die. Frustrated, Ludwig snapped the soldier's head back and plunged his blade through one of the empty eyes. He felt warm, thick drops coat his face.

"There," he spat, feeling the soldier's muscles slowly relax with death, "now you truly can't see anything."

He let the man's boneless body fall to the floor in a heap, the dark pool of blood collecting in his eye spilling over across the bridge of the his crooked nose. And yet, despite seeing the corpse of their comrade more kept coming, as if they couldn't stop themselves. Once, Ludwig's foot caught on a body and he stumbled long enough for one of the soldiers to deal him a jab to the side, just past his rib-cage. As soon as Ludwig's legs regained stability, the soldier sent the knife slicing through the air at him again, but the German caught the arm holding it, twisting until there was a satisfactory _pop_ in the man's wrist. Ludwig was appalled to see not an ounce of reaction, not even retaliation, just the same old stare that underneath begged Ludwig to finish him off. And Ludwig did s with a startling enlightenment.

They _couldn't_ stop themselves. These men were trapped in their own bodies, slaves to the Overlord's wishes. Ludwig didn't know how, but the Overlord could control their minds, perhaps inflict them with the same painful voices that were plaguing Feliciano. The Overlord conditioned them to submit at the first blow, because then they were rendered imperfect, weak. They would be replaced with newer, better models. Ludwig felt like throwing up.

By then, Ludwig had spotted Arthur, engaged in a confrontation with an opposition soldier as the Resistance and Organization had it out around him, the Briton absorbed in creating an absolute decimation of his victim's body. In and out, the blade drove, in and out, an erratic rhythm, sometimes aimed for the sake of anger and sometimes to be readjusted, as if Arthur had only then remembered that he had others to fight instead of the one he was stabbing. Ludwig pushed through the melee, knives grazing, limbs striking out at all sides, from every angle, only then realizing that the man Arthur was holding had been long dead.

He approached cautiously, but even then Arthur nearly gutted him in his anger. Ludwig had no time to fully address Arthur's hate-clouded state of mind, and he felt he had no place to as his own was very much the same. He reminded Arthur of their mission, at the same time reminding himself, noticing that what was left of the Organization forces was dashing down the tunnels. Something was up, and Ludwig had a good idea what.

He relayed to Arthur his suspicion that the opposing troops had been called upon to regroup deeper within the tunnels. He suggested they split up to come at the gathering force from both sides, feeling the need to reiterate what they were here for. But no matter what he said, that spark of blinding hate still remained in Arthur's eyes, and, as the Briton made his way toward one of the tunnels, Ludwig wondered if he himself possessed the same spark.

Not having the time to contemplate, Ludwig located Shawn, who was leaning over one of the fallen Resistance soldiers. The man was dying, lungs rattling with blood, only the handle of the knife shoved into his chest visible, so deep was the blade embedded. Shawn was crouched beside him, holding his hand as the man trembled. As Ludwig got closer, he realized that the soldier was just a boy, no more than eighteen.

"It's all right," Shawn reassured in a low tone. It seemed to bring the boy comfort even as he observed Shawn's vest, which was covered with blood, similar to his own still leaking out of his body. "It won't hurt for much longer."

The boy's eyes were red and swimming. "Please. P-please, help my sister. She's in the—"—he paused here to cough up a dark glut of blood—"i-in the Women's Sector, p-part of the… the Expansion Program. Please. She's just thirteen."

Shawn nodded and said, "We will. She'll be safe."

But the boy continued to fret, dropping his head to the side, cheek pressed against the cold, blood-stained floor, staring into one of the tunnels as if he could see her standing there. "Sh-she has no one. Mom d-died, and… and I missed her b-birthday." Tears spilled over, cutting through the blood on the boy's face. "She should be fourteen now." He would have sobbed if his lungs had let him, too constrained by fluid to allow him the mercy.

Shawn didn't say anything more; he and Ludwig both knew the boy was nearing his last breath. "Liddy… Lidia. H-her name…" But then every muscle gave in, the chest constricting with a trembling breath, making it appear as if it were being sucked in. A long, feathery sigh later, and he was gone.

Shawn took a deep breath and placed the boy's hand on his chest, just below the knife that had killed him, before rising and meeting Ludwig's gaze.

"I am going to pursue the retreating forces," the German informed without pause. Time could make or break them now. "You will stay here and kill any Organization man who tries to enter the tunnel."

Shawn dipped his head somberly. "Will do."

Ludwig turned away and took two steps toward the tunnel adjacent to the one Arthur had chosen to go down when Shawn said, "His name was Leighton."

Guilt stabbed him at Shawn's words, as if the man was accusing him of neglecting to address the death of one of their own soldiers. But Shawn's tone was not bitter; it was expectant.

"Leighton," Ludwig repeated, a promise, before continuing on.

Boots scuffed against concrete, a dozen men at his heels, ready to defend, and Ludwig was willing to accept their guardianship if only he could be at the head of the group. It was only then that Ludwig realized his earpiece had been humming away for quite some time. Explosions burst around him, some distant, some close, to the extent that Ludwig felt as if he were playing a game of Five Finger Filet. One in particular blasted in a tunnel adjacent—the one Arthur had chosen—and Ludwig hoped that the Briton had vacated long before as his own tunnel rocked and cracked from the force, bits of concrete spilling down from the ceiling. Then Ludwig heard his name through the earpiece.

_"_ _Ludwig, lead your forces down the next tunnel, quickly!"_

Ludwig did so but not quickly enough; he had barely run a few steps before he was upended, violently somersaulting beneath a rain of rock and dust and stifling heat. He stopped rolling when he ran into one of the curving side walls, aching and bruised, eyes red with dust, hacking with it. He used the wall to help himself to his feet, waiting for the dust to clear before he confirmed, with great shame and sorrow, that all of his force had been taken out by the blast and those that had survived it by the falling rubble. Ludwig hadn't been that far ahead, and sure enough he saw that one man was wriggling at the foot of the pile. The German rushed over, observing limp arms and legs alike jutting out from between the jagged slabs of concrete. Sickened, but not deterred, he crouched down.

"M-my legs," the man whimpered. "They're stuck." He held out his arms. Ludwig took them and pulled with all his might, but the rocks refused to budge. The soldier began to hyperventilate, but even then he flashed a desperate look toward Ludwig and said, "Go. This will take you too long, and even if I do get out my legs will be useless."

Ludwig shook his head, wanting with everything in him—everything he knew that was right—to remain with the soldier that had vowed to protect him but also knowing that such insistence would put the whole plan and his fellow nations in jeopardy. He had, after all, made a promise.

"I'm sorry," were his parting words.

As Ludwig jogged with great discomfort down the tunnel he listened keenly to the earpiece, not to hear when he would have to make turns to avoid being blown up by defenses, but mostly to hear Feliciano's name. He hadn't so far, which could either be a good or bad thing. Then again, the blast could have drowned out the Italian's name from his hearing entirely.

Ludwig's legs burned, still shaky and aching from their tumble, and he knew that it would be in his best interest to stop and recover, but then there was the terrific sound of a blast sending an entire tunnel collapsing, and with word of Matthew's disappearance supposedly behind (or, in the most unfortunate circumstances, beneath) the rubble that had fallen Ludwig was running faster than he had been, the image of those arms and legs sticking out from between the rocks providing the fuel to his legs. Expansion Center, Expansion Center, he kept thinking, even as he was contemplating the possibility of Matthew's death and how that could affect the plan, even as he knew Matthew could still be alive, waiting for a rescuer, expecting one, desperate for one, Ludwig included on the list potential saviors. He took a deep breath and kept on going while the world fell down around him.

As much as he knew he needed to continue, Ludwig also knew continuing to the point that he arrived in such a weakened state he couldn't properly function would be in no way helpful, so he located a tunnel that seemed to be already damaged from an explosion (ensuring, hopefully, that no other defenses would go off within it) and entered, sliding down the wall to rest on the floor, legs splayed and chest heaving. After he managed to regain his breath, Ludwig bent down, pain screaming up his back, to gingerly roll up his black pant legs, seeing an equal amount of black beneath. He was more battered than he'd originally thought.

Disappointed in himself but not discouraged, Ludwig concluded his rest and placed a hand against the wall to help his ascent, legs wobbly and sore with protest after relaxing for a time. It took Ludwig nearly a full minute to convince his limbs to function how they should, at the end of which he noticed black boots standing before him, a yard or so away, and his eyes trailed upward, over puffy black pants, black vest and turtleneck, to the gun pointed at him with leather-bound hands, up the black-clad arms, and to a face surrounded by messy, flyaway brown hair.

The smirk on that face was overly wide, as if it didn't fit, and Shawn said, "I thought I would never find you."

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No translations

A Word From the Writer: So, don't freak out if you see no 'Next' button. It's not a trick of the eyes, it's just me having procrastinated on this and on my school work, and school work ultimately comes before Hetalia, so... I don't like it, but there it is. I only managed to get this chapter done for now, but I won't leave you hanging! The next chapter will (hopefully) be posted Sunday. As for this chapter... Germany gets all violent and shit. Awesome. But it seems like everyone is running into problems at the end of each chapter: Russia got fried, England's knocked out from a wtf fall through the floor, France doesn't know what to do since Todd is gone, China has been taken captive, and Germany here has been confronted with a turncoat. Oh yeah, and we mustn't forget that Matthew and Alfred have gone MIA. Could it get any worse? Well, of course!

Until tomorrow~! :D


	112. Shepherd

**KABOOM.**

Warning: Violence, fight scene, weapons, gore, death, hint to child sexual abuse.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

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_"Get beyond love and grief: exist for the good of Man."_

—Miyamoto Musashi

**Shepherd**

_Shh, shh._

The sound of his boots as he marched back and forth, back and forth. A soldier passed him, and he nearly winced at the harsh contrast between both their strides. Did they know? Could they hear that he didn't belong?

Kiku had no problem keeping a blank face; he had trained himself to do so since a young age when those wanting and willing to control him hid behind smiling faces, kind gestures, and elaborate promises. He couldn't say much in the way of the Organization regarding the first two, but the promise was there, and it was never a good promise if the other party did not possess the voice to oppose it. He had thought the world had learned that by now.

Once, Kiku had longed for every generation to be just as long lived as he had been so as to know what was right and what was wrong based on what history had already laid out as examples. But then Kiku reminded himself that even he hadn't been able to use what he had learned after hundreds of years of living and experience to counter the catastrophe that had already taken place. History may give lessons, but each was far smaller and less threatening than those that lay in store for the future. There was no possible way for one to have the wisdom to resolve _those_ , not until they stood on the doorstep, and even then one had only so much time to respond before the threatening visitor broke down the door. And every time, the lesson came with a stronger weapon; earlier its feet, then an ax, then a battering ram, and now…

Kiku thought back to the bunker, how much safer it seemed than pacing the tunnels, even as they discussed the plan.

" _Kiku and Uncle Matt will form Team Delta," Red continued. Her finger found a tunnel marked 'D' before sliding in the intended direction of their travel. "You will infiltrate the tunnels from the west and move to the Expansion Center where you will meet Team Charlie to free the Women's Sector and any hostages you find. Feliciano and I will be there to lead everyone you release out of the tunnels to safety and our forces will take hostages of our own in case worse comes to worse and we need to bargain with the Overlord." Even as she said it, Kiku could see her confidence wane, reflected in the eyes of those watching. They all knew that the Overlord could care less about his own men when he had more waiting to be turned out into combat who were just as skilled as those captured. Bargaining chips were all but useless, but it didn't hurt to have them. The question of if they would be worth the trouble to have should be the primary concern._

_"So," Red went on, clearing her throat as if trying to clear the murky atmosphere. "You know the drill. Todd and Danny will do their best to decommission the defenses, and Danny will be assigned to your team. Make sure you keep him in your sights. We can't turn off the defenses with even one of them dead. After the fighting begins, listen for Todd in your earpiece. He'll tell you where to go."_

… And now it was using explosives.

Even though Red had looked on both he and Matthew with expectation, Kiku recognized something more in her gaze when it had been directed to him. _You know what it will take,_ she seemed to say, _don't make me lose respect for you._ Kiku had known it even before she had looked at him in such a way. Matthew, although possessing his own brand of knowledge and skill, was still very young. Just as Yao with Alfred, Kiku was being charged with ultimate responsibility for whatever happened with his part of the plan. He would be the voice of reason over the passion of youth. As much weight as that put on him, Kiku was grateful that he hadn't been paired with Alfred. He didn't think he would have been able to convince him of anything if there was a catch in their plan. Yao had the authority to demand at least some acknowledgement from Alfred.

 _He's troubled,_ Kiku thought, recalling the way Yao's face had taken on a brooding expression after all of his suggestions were shot down by Red. _He will make his own way once everything begins._ If there was anything Kiku knew about Yao, it was that he may protest little in favor of listening, but in the end he would do whatever he thought best no matter what anyone said. Whether such a decision on Yao's part would benefit the plan or ruin it, Kiku couldn't tell. Yao could take care of himself, the past had proved that, but Kiku's thoughts went back to the man's chewed lips, to the blood dripping down onto a porcelain-white hand, and his confidence in Yao's abilities wavered just a bit.

 _Don't think you can do it all on your own,_ he silently begged as another soldier walked by him without so much as a glance in his direction. _Please just come back to me whole._

He fought to keep his hand from slipping down to his waist, where the hilt of his katana jutted out, hidden black against the black of his shirt, the sheath having been slid down one of his pant legs to draw the greedy eyes behind the cameras away from him. _Shh, shh._ He had been taught to walk like this, as silent as a whisper, disguising a secret just as shocking.

On his forty-fourth pace back across the tunnel, he was met with the soft sound of faraway gunfire, as if it were bundled in layers of muffling fabric. He didn't know whether that was his cue or not; it could be just the start of the training drill. But then he heard the sound of dozens of feet moving as one gigantic entity toward the exits of the tunnels. _Doom, doom,_ their boots seemed to be saying. _Doom, doom, doom, doom._ The tunnels made them echo until it seemed as if a whole army was on the move.

Once Kiku was among them, moving in formation, he saw a glint of metal out of the corner of his eye and his hand refused to keep from his katana any longer. He pulled it from its sheath and swept it out to the side until the blade hit flesh. He didn't even need to look to know that he had hit two Organization men in their bellies, slicing through fabric where the vest did not extend and through their soft insides. Kiku didn't wait to hear their dying wheezes, liquefied with blood. One tug and he had his katana back and ready, bringing it down in an arc onto another soldier's shoulder, the man's severed arm hitting the floor with a wet _thud_ just after the bodies of his previous victims. The man with one arm staggered, trying to regain his balance, but Kiku kicked him over to have at another soldier behind him. This one was staring at him, no, _through_ him, as if he were not entirely there. The almost inhuman eyes scared and angered him all at once, and Kiku quickly drove his blade through the man's throat, slicing through flesh, muscle, and tendon as though they were butter. Blood poured out, jetting onto Kiku's face and arms as the man's head hit the floor, _crack_ , and rolled off between the legs of comrades and traitors alike, eyes still open, glazed, and watching, now fit for his equally dead face.

 _Swish, sigh, jab, slice._ Kiku's face may be blank but his eyes were aflame. _Sigh, slice, jab, swish, shh, shh._ No one saw him coming, he was so quick. No one heard his approach, he was so quiet. Only Death could do a better job.

He had been so focused on killing as many soldiers as he could that he hadn't realized he had reached the convergence of the tunnels until he heard gunfire, this closer than of that outside, and he stopped for the first time in several minutes to see Matthew squeezing off rounds into the fray. His personal guard surrounded him, and, Kiku realized, his own had only just then caught up to him, heaving and tired.

"You should save your ammo," Kiku reminded as he met the Canadian.

Matthew didn't even look at him, concentrating. "I lost my knife," he replied as if he expected it to happen. Kiku just watched, having come out of his combative haze, trying to remember how many he had killed and how. It seemed so far away, like a dream. He had long learned to distance himself from the guilt and horror of killing, but having gone so long without being in such a scenario and so being forced to swallow such emotions was making him ill. The fire in his veins, however, only burned all the more.

Kiku allowed his guard to kill off some of those trying to come at him; he figured they needed to feel as if they had done their job some way instead of just chasing him around and trying to keep him under tabs. His eyes narrowed as the remainder of the Organization force ran off into the tunnels as if a part of one huge pack obeying a gathering howl.

_They are too numb to feel fear. Why do they retreat?_

Matthew had lowered his rifle and his eyes seemed to be asking the same question. "They've run off." He wiped at his brow, smearing blood across his skin. It was only then that Kiku noticed the Canadian's hands were drenched with it.

"Are you hurt?"

Matthew stared at him in confusion before following Kiku's gaze to his hands and then he met his eyes again. "Not mine. Someone else's."

 _He's leaving something out._ But before Kiku had the chance to interrogate him further, Danny was running up to them, plump and panting, covered in sweat.

"H-hey, guys, we—" He wheezed and coughed, hunched over and hands on his knees. "We need to g-get moving."

"Yeah, we'd better," Matthew agreed. He slung his rifle over his back, bloody fingers pulling gently at the black bandana still wrapped around his arm. Kiku watched, something clicking in his mind. "So, I guess we could split up…?"

"No," Kiku answered firmly, and Matthew stared at him with a sort of… impudence Kiku had never seen him exhibit. _I know what you want to do,_ Kiku thought. _But I will make you see sense._ It was obvious that Matthew wanted to set out on his own, and it was just as equally as obvious that he would end up with more blood on his hands if he did so, most likely his own. "We stay together to protect Dan."

Matthew was opposed to the idea; that much was obvious in his eyes. But the Canadian followed Kiku nonetheless as he led the way into one of the tunnels that fed deep into the system. Danny was running with great difficulty, almost loping, fingers poised to his earpiece, awaiting Todd's orders. There was a pop of static and then—

_"I'm in, I repeat, I'm in! Defenses are set to go off…"_

Kiku listened for their names, turned when appropriate. Shocks from the explosions nearby rocked the tunnels, sending debris showering onto their heads. His feet changed direction with ease, never sliding or slipping. The others had trouble keeping up, and it was all too late that he realized they were far behind him.

He was on his way back as Danny stopped to disable another defense before he heard their names called again. _"Matthew, Kiku, pick up the pace and go left."_

They did—only to nearly run smack into a whole group of people heading in the exact opposite direction. Kiku skidded to a halt, halfway through unsheathing his katana, when his eyes were met with those of a little girl, no more than a year old, teary and wide. She clung to whom he took as her older sister who appeared just as frightened. There were at least twenty of them, all made up of women and children, going frantic at the sight of their black, black uniforms and the blood that splotched them.

"Please, we're just lost!" one woman shouted, on the verge of tears. "W-we were scared and ran off… but if you take us back, we'll stay!"

"We're not going to hurt you," Matthew assured. "We're part of the Resistance."

The women stared for a few moments in wonder, but then fear filled them again.

"P-please, take us back. Don't tell the Overlord, please!"

"We are not trying to trick you," Kiku told them, but before he could explain further his vision exploded into white and his ears stopped working save for a high-pitched ring that pierced his hearing. His legs took to running by instinct, but soon after he was sent flying, hitting all of those who hadn't managed to get away fast enough like bowling pins. He rolled for an imperceptible distance and time, over and over until he thought he would retch if his lungs had the chance to function. Then came the heat, burning, burning, as if his skin was being peeled from his muscle. But the rolling waves of suffocating smoke and fire kept him pinned, unable to move or escape. The floor began to shake, like someone had picked the tunnel up and was tossing it around like a toy. He felt something smash down beside him, blind and deaf and helpless as a newborn kitten, and then he felt another and another…

 _"Ah!"_ Hearing his voice was bittersweet as a slab of what he perceived was concrete crushed his thigh before rolling off. He finally had the ability to cover his head with his arms as debris big and small began a consistent assault on his body, piling up until he thought surely he would be buried. He slowly regained full function of his eardrums, still ringing in agony, and all the world seemed to be was the constant rumble and crack of falling stone.

And then it just… stopped.

Kiku lay there for half a minute, gasping for breath, tortured by the jackhammer pounding of his skull, and he suddenly wished that he had remained deaf for just a little longer. Every sound felt like a knife to his head.

And then came the one he thought would kill him: _"Kiku? Kiku, do you copy?"_

Kiku groaned, squeezing tears from his eyes as he willed his quivering arm to lift fingers to his earpiece. "… H-hai."

_"Where's Matthew? I can't see him on the map."_

Kiku winced again and struggled to his knees from below the small pile of rock strewn over him, shaking violently. He coughed at the dust and ash that he was met with, his blurry vision slowly returning to normal. What he saw made his heart throw itself at his ribs.

_"Kiku? Kiku?"_

"The tunnel collapsed." It had. All that was left was a pile of rubble that seemed to go on forever, reaching up to the gray sky outside. All around him people were strewn, whether still people or just bodies he couldn't tell. All that he could confirm was that those caught halfway beneath the pile, those who had arms or legs or heads jutting out from the crushing rocks, were most definitely dead. Kiku didn't know whether he should have been glad not to see Matthew among them or scared that he didn't see him at all. "There is a pile of rubble," he reported, everything in him aching. "I-I can't see him. I lost him." Danny was gone as well, but he didn't want to voice that. Then he would be saying that he had failed.

Silence pervaded the channel for a tense moment, and meanwhile Kiku groped at the cracked wall, nails digging into grime and soot as he struggled to stand. He looked down and saw a young girl with her head split open like a melon, and before he knew it he was retching all over her.

Todd continued with his orders. They had, after all, been instructed to go on with the plan should anything as devastating as this happen. Dizzy and sore, Kiku examined the pile again, saw the blood fanned out from rocks crushing skulls like they were nothing, brain matter and all sorts of other bodily fluids covering the floor. He limped toward the wreckage until he could see a glint of metal and then he knew: Matthew's rifle had been smashed in two beneath the rubble and so had its owner.

Kiku felt sick to his stomach and would have thrown up if he hadn't done so already. He could taste the bile, felt it burning his throat, and he deserved every bit of it. _I'm sorry, I'm sorry. You were safer going off on your own instead of staying with me._ Tears sprung to his eyes, but he wiped them away with the filthy heel of his hand, forcing his body to turn around and keep going. _Whatever it takes, whatever happens, keep going,_ Red's voice echoed in his head, as if they were all still standing around the table in the bunker, whole and ready.

_I'm sorry._

He nearly screamed as a hand flashed out to grab his ankle. He peered down to see the girl he had seen earlier, still holding her baby sister tightly in her arms. The infant was deathly silent, but seemed unharmed apart from some burns, bruising, and smears of ash. The older girl's wet eyes locked onto Kiku's like beacons. "P-please, help." Her voice was hoarse, scratchy, like an old woman's, her skinny, grabbing fingers just as similar.

As much as it pained him, Kiku bent down and lifted her up, baby and all. She held tight to the poor thing, so much so that Kiku wondered if the infant could even breathe. But as soon as he let her lean on him, the baby started to cry.

Others seemed to stir at the sound, as if realizing they were still alive, pushing themselves up with groans and gasps. They all appeared different; arm twisted, broken, burns to one side of the face, a whole leg blackened with soot, but their cries were nearly the same. Smoke-scratched voices grieved, hands grabbing at those that hadn't risen with them, holding what remained of them and sobbing. Others stumbled to the massive rock pile, half breaking down into inconsolable tears while others dug frantically through the rubble with fearful whimpers.

"Anyone who is still alive, leave with me!" Kiku shouted as best he could, sounding like a completely different person. At first all he received were swimming stares, but then sense came to them all, and they began to shuffle toward him obediently. Kiku realized that they were still unconvinced that he was a Resister. It made him sick to think that Organization soldiers would still threaten to kill them after witnessing such tragedy. To do so wasn't even human.

"Follow me," he instructed, his legs burning as he led them through the tunnel and into another that was significantly more intact. The girl with her baby sister and many more that had survived did as they were told, some falling only to get back up again even though they had no desire to move at all ever again.

"Here." Kiku's voice was empty as he directed them to a familiar side door. Somehow he had found the bunker, and as much as he knew he needed to stick to his mission, he also knew that leaving these people—the people whose injuries and sorrow had been his doing—to their own devices was something only the monster men of the Organization would do. He held the door open for them weakly, having it nearly slip from his fingers and close on a woman helping her daughter inside. The two did nothing to avoid it, didn't even flinch, as if they had been expecting to be sliced in half by the heavy door. Bile rose in Kiku's throat again as he caught it, pulled it back.

"Th-thank you, sir," the girl holding her sister said. She seemed to be the only one who believed that he was not a threat.

Kiku nodded, barely able to produce a smile. "You're welcome. What is your name?" Maybe if Kiku called her by her name, the others would be more willing to trust him.

"Lidia."

Kiku extended a hand, the girl taking it as she hoisted herself up over the threshold. "Lidia, you were very brave." Praise might work as well. "You saved your sister."

Lidia frowned and looked down at the baby in her arms in confusion and then back up at Kiku, smiling as if she suddenly knew him and his cause. "She's not my sister. She's my daughter."

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No translations

A Word From the Writer: Wow, all right so I can rest! Yay! So anyway, now we get to see some stuff leading up to Canada's possible death. And we got a little MANada going on that I'm gonna expand upon in his POV. You'll see why. So are you getting the vibe that the Expansion Program is just an outlet for pedophiles and rapists? Good, that's the point. I'll just leave you with that disturbing little note to build up some desire to see this Organization crumble.

Now... to do my research paper. And probably procrastinate some more. It's a growing affliction. XD


	113. Chase

**Just some passive-aggressive girl love.**

Warning: OC, volence, weapons, fight scene, implied yuri, sad stuff, implied pedophilia/rape, and attempted rape.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

_"I would rather lose in a cause that will some day win, than win in a cause that will some day lose."_

—Woodrow Wilson

**Chase**

_You're a hothead._

_You need to stay focused._

_You rush into things; slow down._

_I_ am _slowing down, Sis._

 _Sometimes you don't_ think.

Well, Red couldn't counter that.

She remembered as clearly as if in the very moment, that first handhold, how slender her fingers were, how starkly weathered and knobbed her own were. Red felt like an older sister then, but all of the handholds after she had longed to grip those fingers in her own so that Penny could not get away, so that she could finally acknowledge that, yes, the potential for commitment was there. Red was willing, but she should have known better when it came to Penny. _Should I have told her I loved her more often?_ It was the truth—most of the time. Penny could be the definition of a bitch when she wanted. _Did she not believe me?_ Well, that question could have a note of legitimacy in it. After all (in her enduring hotheadedness as Penny had constantly reminded her), the only time Red had expressed her affections had been in a gruff burst of speech, as if in spite, as if it could act as a brace to keep Penny there and with her, not with all the others she knew her sister to sleep with in a fit of reckless retribution. But that only managed to push Penny further away; the woman was proud of her independence and adhered more to it than to any relationship she had ever been in, if 'relationship' was the correct term.

 _I should have known,_ Red thought as she stood guard outside of the Expansion Center. _Three-hundred years. I should have known a lot of things._ In all those years they had only managed to sense the negative aspects of each other. But Red liked to think that in those moments when she had woken, opening her eyes just slightly, to see Penny watching her as they lay beside each other at night, that there was some love there. It had to be there, even though Penny had never told her outright that she loved her. Honestly, Red felt like she had been doing all the work.

 _And here I am with a worse weight on my shoulders._ Anything could go wrong, and it would be _her fault._ _I shouldn't have put Alfred there. I know what he'll do. What was I thinking?_

That bell-like voice returned with its same note of derision. _You weren't._

_No. Of course not. You would know, wouldn't you? Because you knew me so well?_

" _Feliciano and I will make up Team Echo. Our goal will be to free the women and children in the Expansion Center, guide them to safety, and capture any Organization officers we can."_

When did my voice start echoing? _She swallowed, finger pausing in its sweep over the map of tunnels, eyes going unfocused for a moment. She sounded so loud. She could hear her plans jumping back at her, as if asking her to reconsider. But, if she had learned anything in her life, she knew that making changes now was no better than chopping off a diseased finger when the rest of the hand had already become infected. She could see Alfred's concerned stare out of the corner of her eye, and she felt offended even though she herself was at the root of it. She cleared her throat and set her finger to moving again, tracing up to a boldly circled compound labeled EXPANSION CENTER. "Feli and I… will be here. We will—"_

They had been the first to leave the bunker. They had told the guards in front of the center that they were there to relieve them. They had positioned themselves in place once the guards left. They had stood there silently and stock-still, Red watching the cameras trained on the entrance to the compound watching them. Feliciano was wracked with tremors, was near to tears. Red could hear the whines trying to crawl up and out of his throat. Yet he stood as told, eyes forward, clad in his commandeered black uniform, and the eyes behind the cameras were none the wiser. The blind leading the blind.

She could hear movement behind the steel-and-concrete doors that led to the compound where the Overlord's twisted plan was unfolding at that very moment. As much as Red wanted to be here, taking out the soldiers who had approved of and exploited the Expansion Program, at the same time she would have Alfred here instead, gladly taking his place at the Core. But Alfred had insisted, and what was she to do? Her experience with the Organization was a mere flit across the spectrum of history. Alfred had been her father since she was an infant, something that had remained consistent even through all the hell of the past and the Uprising. Nothing could change that, just as nothing could change Alfred's desire to have his revenge.

 _"Don't think you're old enough to know what's right,"_ he had told her after Red had unwisely confronted him about his fixation on the Core. _"You haven't even begun to learn yet."_

 _I know what makes sense,_ Red thought afterward, after Alfred had mentioned Marge and Penny and how they deserved some form of justice. _And claiming that your age determines your experience is illogical._ Once again, Alfred had been so caught up in the thought of the act that he couldn't perceive his hypocrisies. And Red had let him go, had watched Alfred walk out of the bunker with Yao by his side, as if the Chinaman was some sort of life vest. She was disgusted with herself.

 _I let Penny go._ It was true. She could see her, clear as day, pulling on her clothes and stomping out. She could still feel the house shaking at the force with which she'd slammed the door. _I let Jeremy go._ She tried to tell herself at night, when her mind was keeping her up with painful reminders, that she hadn't known what Jeremy was planning when he had left their hiding place. That she hadn't known he would do something as stupid as run away, just like he'd done in so many other instances with just as much stupidity. She had known. And she had done nothing.

 _I'll do something now,_ she mused as the eyes on the wall shifted once again. _I'll do everything. You better not die, Alfred, 'cause I'm gonna show you how wrong you are._

She was too deep in the tunnels to hear anything that was going on outside, but Todd's hissed voice amid a backdrop of gunfire over her earpiece was enough to get her blood pumping. _"Now."_

She knew the eyes behind the cameras would be distracted by the events unfolding in the other tunnels, too busy to watch two guards, stationary at their posts. The perfect time for Red to signal to Feliciano that their mission had begun.

Of course the Italian had heard Todd over his own earpiece, but he was still standing there, shell-shocked and very much out of place. He was pale and stricken, and when Red turned to the doors everything in him seemed to tense.

"Step back, Feli," she whispered, and she closed her eyes, thinking. Her fingers rose to the keypad just beside the doors. _One of our guys got a data worker drunk,_ Andre's voice echoed through her head once again. _He weaseled the password outta him. It's—_

 _07… 08… 47… Ros… NM._ She typed in the password and paused when she was finished, heart skipping a beat as something connected in her mind. The series of numbers and letters passed through her head once again, and her feet were rooted to the ground.

 _It's… oh God._ How hadn't she picked up on it sooner? And then something else came to her like a defibrillator to the chest, taking her breath away and setting every nerve on fire.

_He knows._

_He knows, and I sent Alfred right to him._

She barely heard the lock click open or Feliciano whimper as he stepped further away. The doors swept slowly wider until they revealed another pair of guards inside. Curiously, they peered around the corner.

"I don't know if you're aware," one began. "But the Overlord has prohibited all visitations until—"

"I'm very aware of the Overlord's preferences," Red told him and pulled the glock from her hip. The blast of the shot was almost missed by her ears, the blood was pounding behind them so much. She watched as the lead burned through the man's flesh, heard him wheeze and gurgle as he fell to the ground, clutching at his neck, blood spurting from between his fingers. Feliciano gasped loudly, and the other guard snatched his own gun out of its holster, muscles bunching and heels lifting. But Red shot him down before he could turn to target the Italian. This time, she was too merciful; he died instantly unlike his companion, who still writhed on the floor in his own fluids. Red stepped over him and yelled over the alarm roaring down the tunnels, its flashing red light making the compound and passageways pulse like blood through veins. She could already hear more soldiers converging further inside the compound, could hear the screams of those trapped inside. Others marched from nearby passages, having been called to arms, converging on her and Feliciano, a unit with one brain and no eyes—except the Resisters among them. Her voice boomed along with the defenses blasting to life in tunnels further down. "Move in! Kill or capture—none get away!"

She was met with a collective rumble of, "Sir!" and the soldiers didn't have the time to blink their blind eyes before they were tumbling like bloody dominoes, neatly all in a line, just how they had been taught. Red held out her arms to the terrified Feliciano. The Italian had back himself into a corner behind an open door, hand clutched to his mouth and eyes wet and wide.

"Feli, over here!"

Feliciano didn't move at first, but a shot rang out near him and then he was running, almost bowling Red over in his fear-fueled haste. "Calm down Feli," she said and motioned for a few Resistance soldiers to come over. When she was satisfied with the number that had responded she looked at Feliciano and said, "You follow me. If you can't see me, then you've gone too far off course. Don't try to confront anyone. Let these guys defend you and help shuttle the captives out. You remember where to go?"

Feliciano nodded hesitantly, biting his lip. Red nodded back.

"All right. Stay behind me, and I'll take the guards out for you. Just remember what I told you."

She didn't give Feliciano time to back out or ask any more questions; that would only waste more time. The Italian had his guards and his orders. He was safe, but Alfred wasn't.

As much as Red longed to run to HQ, she knew that leaving everything she had planned behind was something she simply could not do. She was the head of the operation, and if the Resistance saw her leaving then everything may just fall apart. Instead, Red banished the thought of her father, knowing Alfred was stupid and stubborn, but not so stupid and stubborn as to die. He would have his due from the Overlord for everything that he had done, and such a thing could not be accomplished if he died before or along with him. Red could see the Overlord clearly in her mind now, knew his identity possibly better than anyone else.

 _I should have known,_ her mind repeated, and her memories echoed, _I should have known a lot of things._ Once again Alfred's words about how she was too young to know anything resurfaced, and she had a sudden desire to slap him. _You don't know. You never knew. All that time he was right_ there _and you didn't see a thing._ Anger swelled within her, and her footfalls became faster, harder, her trigger finger twitching more erratically as the Organization soldiers from within the compound rounded the pulsing red bend. She greeted them with a shower of lead. _I should have taken his head off—_ a soldier shot, a wheeze, dropping to the floor, trampled— _The first time I saw him—_ shot, writhing, blood pooling, boots slipping, more shots— _I knew something was wrong. And I just…_

 _Let._ Shot. _Him._ Blood. _Go._ Death.

"Captain?" a man shouted at her, and she whipped her head around, gritting her teeth, hair flying. It looked as if her whole head was on fire. The man shrunk back, fell back into line, continued to shoot at the on-comers as Red cleared a line before them, annoyed as she was forced to pause and reload.

_"Think."_

The voice cut clear and calm through the haze of bullets, blasts, and blood.

 _I_ am _thinking,_ Red insisted, infuriated. _I know what I want._

_"Slow down."_

_I_ can't _slow down._ She shook her head as she stepped over another corpse, saw the dead eyes match the dead face. _Get out of my head. Get out!_

_"You're afraid."_

_No, I'm not! I'm never…_

_"Then prove it!"_ the voice ordered. The sound of the slamming door, the tremor of the house. _"No one can go around completely stoic, as if nothing in the world can hurt them. I left, and you were too scared to run after me every time. Now you're letting go of yourself, can't you see?"_

Red paused for a moment, magazine in hand. Men took the initiative and swarmed around her, covering for her, for every second she couldn't get herself together because in her three-hundred years of life she truly _had_ learned nothing, less than those defending her.

 _What should I do?_ The question was a whisper, a child's whisper in the dark.

 _"Chase it."_ Those days of running among the trees and bramble, that ringing voice of _Come and get me, come and get me!_ with a frustrated reply of _I can't see you, slow down!_ , blue eyes flashing and dark hair flickering with reflected sunlight, laughing _That would be too easy._

 _"Chase it,"_ the voice repeated. _"Goddammit, Gin, I'm not here to say 'I love you'; you never earned it. Because you never_ chased _."_

A new kind of burning filled her then, not of anger but of determined fury. _I gave you everything._

_"No, you didn't."_

Red reloaded and shot a soldier rushing at her before he could do the shame. To the head, nice and clean. She took aim once more, shot again. _I gave you_ something. _You gave me nothing but broken promises._

The voice laughed. _"We're fighting_ now _?"_

 _If you want._ Another body crumpling to the ground, more blood.

They had cleared the entire passage. The cries of the prisoners were close, just around the corner. And so were the footsteps of more soldiers. Red waved her arm, urging them to push ahead while she herself was stuck behind in memories.

_"You didn't give me yourself. It was all superficial."_

_If this is supposed to make me feel better, then fuck off._

_"It's supposed to make you_ think _."_

 _I_ am _thinking, dammit!_

_"No, you aren't."_

_You're a lying bitch. I hate you._

She chuckled. _"So endearing. But you know who's even more of a bitch?"_

_No one._

Another chuckle. _"Close. What about that girl, the one that almost killed our dad? And Uncle Matt? And Arthur?"_

_Pfft. I don't care about stuffy old 'Brows_

_"Now who's the liar?"_ the voice quipped, and by now Red was close to that moving mass of feet, one more turn of the corner… _"You care about all of them. And who tried to take them away?"_

Red stiffened. Her fingers went white-knuckled around her weapon. She saw the first shadows of the Organization soldiers stretch up the arched tunnel wall. _Jeanne._

 _"Then you have your quarry."_ Red shivered, feeling something brush up against her ear, warm and cold at once. The ringing of bells. _"Chase."_

And Red did.

She surged forward and her men with her, cutting a path through the Organization soldiers that met them with gunshots and knife swings. A bullet whizzed by her so close she could feel its heat and wind, burrowing into a Resistance soldier behind her. Even as she heard his body hit the ground, she yelled, "Move! To the service area! Move!"

Half broke off to follow her while the others knew to stay and keep the soldiers busy. Red didn't glance behind her, but she could hear Feliciano's yelp with every gunshot and close call. They arrived at the service area without much trouble, the Organization soldiers too busy guarding the captives further inside and invading the tunnels to worry about defending a few women and the unlucky officers who hadn't escaped in time. The Resistance filled the room with their force and all at once Organization soldiers began to swarm, fleeing the service rooms, hands fumbling at their belts, for their weapons, catching themselves as they stumbled, pants around their knees. Red shot them down along with her guards, determined to _think, just think_ even as disgust filled her with a need to unload her clip completely into each man who dared to try and crawl away from their retribution.

The room was filled with screams and gunshots, and a few long minutes passed before every opposition soldier that could be seen was gunned down and bleeding out on the floor. Women were huddling in corners, holding each other, some half-dressed, others clutching their scant clothing to them, shivering and crying. They began to scream again as the Resistance offered their help, but they calmed when they were told that they were not in danger, that they were there to save them. The apprehension was prevalent as the women dressed, were told to follow Feliciano and his guard out of the tunnels and to safety. One woman, standing in nothing but a decorative bra and lacy panties, held her rounded belly and stared, conflicted.

"Will you be able to walk?" Red asked as she gathered the captives and sent them to Feliciano for guidance.

The woman directed her wet eyes to her, wiping them with the heel of her palm. Her other hand slid over the arc of her belly again. "Y-yeah. Um… I, um, th-thank you."

Red nodded and watched the woman go, hesitating to commit to any other activity until she was out of sight. She stood there a minute after, wondering whatever happened to that poor young girl who had been ordered to entertain her after Red was promoted to captain. She had never had the time to thank her outright for her information about Jeanne.

Jeanne. As much as Red searched, she hadn't been able to locate her. But then again, the service rooms were no place for such a valuable person to be. Jeanne had no business here, just as she had no business contributing to the production of the Expansion Center. She was about to order the rest of her force to move further into the compound when she passed a service room and heard whimpering inside.

"Shut up," hissed someone on the other side, sinister and threatening. "Shut up, _shut up_!" There was shuffling and a pained cry, and that was enough for Red to put her foot to the door.

A few kicks and the door was hanging from its hinges, Red's gun up and searching for a target. She found it in the fat, balding man staring at her with horror as he huddled up against a far wall. At the back of the room, two girls clutched each other, small and wide-eyed. Red couldn't believe what she was seeing. So, the Organization didn't have enough money to afford proper meals for their troops, but it certainly had enough to manufacture lingerie for prepubescent girls. Sick as she was, she lowered her gun and dug her fingers into the collar of the old man's shirt, dragging him out in an adrenaline high. She was even more disgusted when she saw that the man had soiled himself.

"Coward," she spat, heel connecting with the man's chest, well-fed belly, his fat face. "Pig. Bastard. You'd rape me too if I didn't have the ability to smash your face in, huh? Wouldn't you, you disgusting piece of filth?" Again and again she kicked him, crushing his face, his grubby hands, the weapon beneath his fly. The man begged and sobbed, and Red didn't feel in the least bit guilty. Judging by his emotions, he wasn't just one of the soldiers whose minds were manipulated to give them the urge to copulate. He knew what he was doing. "So, you're one of the rat bastards who sits the Council. I wonder how many of those fat fucks have gotten off to children? What, you got harems, you sick fuck? Is that how the Overlord repays you? You like seeing them cry, don't you?"

"N-no, please…" the man whimpered, beaten and bloody. "Just k-kill me, if you want, please."

Red stopped kicking him then and put her gun back in its holster. "No. You're not getting an easy ticket. You'll suffer just like you made those girls suffer. Now get your fat ass up an—"

The rest of Red's sentence was chopped off by a wheeze as someone's arm snapped around her neck, choking her. The girls still hiding in the service room screamed and cried as she stumbled and spread her feet, trying to balance herself. But the man behind her had a knife and stabbed her twice in the side, her knees buckling at the pain. Her guards were around the corner, occupied with the captives, and she wasn't about to call to them for help. She didn't need a hostage situation now.

The man wrestled her to the ground and grabbed her by the wrists, twisted her painfully onto her stomach. Once he had her pinned, he thought it safe enough to discard his weapon and set about his sinister task. She could feel a hand fumbling at the hem of her pants, and rage gripped her. It only escalated as the old man she had brutalized earlier began to laugh his raspy laugh. "Bitch had it comin'. Fuck her hard for me."

The man above her didn't respond, managed to get her belt undone and her pants halfway down her ass. He was so distracted with the prospect of having her, that Red managed to twist out of his grasp and connect a heel to his jaw. She couldn't even form words, as angry as she was, and she grabbed her dropped weapon without a sound, planting a bullet in her attacker's skull. His eyes rolled up and he fell back, limp and dead, and the old man stopped laughing beside her, just stared. He was still staring even after Red shot him dead as well.

Her guards rushed around the corner to see her standing there, rumpled and chest heaving in a pool of blood. Her side was burning like hell from where she was stabbed, but she had managed to convince the girls to come out of the service room to wait for the Resistance. They hesitated as the men appeared, too black-clad to garner any sort of trust. But their eyes… they weren't dead or threatening, and that seemed enough for the girls.

"Take them," Red told her soldiers, and a couple came forward to take the girls by the hand and lead them away. One soldier stayed to ask if Red was okay, and she scoffed.

"I'll be fine." Her eyes were trained on the girls' backs as they turned the corner. "But they will never be." Again the girl who had been ordered to service her came to her mind. _I can't believe I agreed to indulge in something like that, even if I didn't use her._ Her eyes wandered up to the soldier who had asked her such a stupid question, still gawking at her as if she was some wounded animal. "Anything else you wanna say?"

The man blinked, blushing, and said, "I just got word from the other guards. Feliciano is gone."

Red's heart lurched. _"What?"_

And then the floor beneath their feet began to shake, as if her loud voice had been enough to cause it. They both peered up and saw a big chunk of concrete plunging down toward them, but Red was the only one quick enough to escape being crushed beneath it. Her ears registered a close blast, a defense going off, and she was about to ask Todd over her earpiece what the hell was going on when she noticed, for the first time, that the line was full of static, as dead as the guard who had been flattened by the concrete. She gritted her teeth and in a fit of frustration hurled the earpiece to the floor, watching it shatter. Her lifeline gone as well as her protectors, she spun around and started off deeper into the compound. She found that the doors, which served as the only entrance as a rule, were blocked off with rock that had been dislodged by the blast. She huffed and clenched her fists, thinking, weighing Jeanne's death with Feliciano's life and deciding.

She had made a promise to Ludwig. She would not let Feliciano go.

"Godfuckingdammit," she swore as she moved through the compound, the air still and eerily silent. In freeing all the captives, she had become a captive herself. She felt isolated and trapped, alone—like she had been feeling ever since she had joined the Organization. No one understood her, and now that Penny was gone no one ever _would_.

"I almost wish you were here right now," Red laughed hollowly. "As bitchy as you are." Another memory. Catching that dark hair and those laughing blue eyes, tumbling over each other as Red tackled her to the ground. Giggling and laying on their backs to watch the clouds move past through the gnarled branches of the trees. Fingers found each other, sliding together and squeezing.

_"You won't catch me next time."_

_"Maybe I will."_

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No translations

A Word From the Writer: All right so... eek, I'm sorry! Literally my life this week has been like this: go to school, get home, work, eat, sleep, repeat. That may be because I procrastinated with other shit, but you know how I am with _that_. Then yesterday I had a math placement test and somehow qualified for precalc. Like, wtf, I barely got through Algebra II and I haven't taken math for year (which is not advisable, mind you). *sigh* Anyway, I know this isn't legit Hetalia or anything, but it has Italy and other characters are mentioned, and, hey, some bitchy girl love action going on so... I felt I had to expand on that a bit. Just to show you how rocky their relationship was and all. I'll have another chappie ready um... hopefully Monday, maybe Tuesday... lol, I have no time during the week (and I feel a bit guilty about having this out so late 'cause I was finishing up a smut fic, but, hey, you'll get to see that sometime in the near future so... don't throw rotten fruit at me or anything). And about that password Red typed in, just... think about it.

Btw, just a refresher, Jeremy=New Jersey.

See you in the hopefully not-so-distant future! :D


	114. Safe

**Oh lawd, here comes the MANada.**

Warning: Violence, weapons, fight scene, gore, mention of CanUS (incest, if you lean that way), CubaxCanada, and TurCan, possible character death.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

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_"The choice, however, is as clear now for nations as it was once for the individual: peace or extinction."_

_—Lester B. Pearson_

**Safe**

" _I…"_

_Matthew peered up from his sleeping bag, quickly snatching his hand back down from the bandanna tied to his upper arm. Alfred was standing in the doorway, hands awkwardly balled in his pockets. His eyes flickered away and he cleared his throat, continuing, "I never really approved of him, you know."_

_Matthew blinked, unsure of what Alfred was referring to until he followed his brother's gaze to the black scrap on his arm. "I know."_

_Alfred walked across the room, standing silently for a moment before finally deciding to sit cross-legged on the floor beside him. He looked into his lap, picked at a scab on his hand. Matthew watched, lying flat on his back, the better to view Alfred's expression beneath his fringe. It was rueful, but Matthew couldn't help but say something._

_"It's not your place to cross-examine my lovers for your peace of mind."_

_"Yeah… I know." Alfred ran a hand through his hair. It was nice to see that even during all this hell, Nantucket had still refused to be tamed. "But then I saw how happy he made you." Matthew startled at the statement. Had it really been so obvious? Alfred caught his look and laughed a bit. "Yeah, you were pretty hooked. I saw the way he held your hand." Again, Matthew stiffened. Alfred's perception had improved significantly since the start of the Uprising. "Like he was afraid of losing the one good thing he had. Just like…" Alfred didn't need to finish his sentence in order for Matthew to fill in the words._ Just like me and Ivan. _Matthew didn't know if he should feel content or jealous._ I lost a lover and a brother, _the Canadian thought sullenly. Sadiq had been snatched from him and now Alfred was slowly drifting away from him to Ivan. He had never felt so alone, so determined to prove that being alone wasn't necessarily a bad thing. A motivator, more like. It had always been there for him, only he had yet to embrace its potential. It did, after all, take a special kind of strength to stand alone, even if only internally._

_"I didn't like him," Alfred continued. "And I never did. But just the way he made you smile… that was enough for me."_

_Matthew gave an amused huff. "Look at you, being sensitive. What would Arthur say?"_

_Alfred scoffed. "He'd probably laugh that snooty laugh of his."_

_"Wouldn't put it past him." Matthew rolled to his side and sat up, mustering as content a smile as he could. "But I appreciate it."_

_Alfred nodded, both of their eyes darting away for a long minute, silence yawning between them. Matthew's fingers went back to the bandana._

_"I don't want you to get hurt," Alfred said._

_"I should hope not," Matthew replied, only then noticing that Alfred was studying his fingers. He pulled his hand away and put it in his lap, as difficult as it was for him to pry himself away from all that he had left of Sadiq. But there was something in Alfred's eyes…_

_His suspicions were confirmed as Alfred continued, "Please, just… stay safe, okay?"_

_Stay safe. Right._

Matthew hadn't fully understood then what Alfred had been going on about; indeed, Alfred went on about a lot of things that were irrelevant and Matthew tended to mute most of his ramblings. But this exchange had stuck with him. He had revisited the memory to instill in his mind with absolute permanence what might have been his last private conversation with Alfred. Playing it over and over in his head had provided some clarity.

Alfred had never been good with words, that much was and always would be certain. But there were times when Alfred had honestly been trying to tell Matthew something without finding the right words with which to say it. When they were sleeping together, there hadn't been many 'I love you's other than the typical and playful, 'Love ya, bro,' and Matthew had been just fine with that. What they'd had wasn't written in stone. They were close enough to go beyond brotherly love but far enough apart to abstain from romantic love. They had, after all, agreed upon entering an open relationship. The communication was the same as was everything else—all that had changed was the fact that they'd screwed here and there. Nothing serious. Nonetheless, the experience had given Matthew a new perspective of his brother that made him aware of subtle changes in the man's behavior. The encounter in the bunker had only been one of those times, but it had been a time when Alfred's message was not nearly as light as the ones preceding.

 _He could see it._ Most definitely. How, Matthew hadn't the slightest idea, but he certainly knew that Alfred's perception had improved substantially to prompt such a statement from him. Unlike all those other times, it wasn't simply a _"Stay safe,"_ at least not entirely. Matthew recalled the look in Alfred's eyes whenever they had been fixed on the bandanna still wrapped around his arm, had noted the apprehension in them at the sight of it. Now it was as if Alfred was standing right in front of him, shaking his head and saying, _"I know what you wanna do, but forget it. Sadiq would have wanted you to live, not get yourself killed because of him."_

To which Matthew would have replied, _"You almost did the same with Marge, and you would certainly do it for Ivan. Why must it be me who everyone sees as so weak?"_ He could almost taste the words on his tongue, and he longed to say them, even if only as a whisper, because he was _tired_ of being underestimated. Alfred outshined him, that much was true, and Matthew wasn't entirely sure if he wanted that to change. But now they were on even ground and so were the Organization soldiers who marched so mechanically past him, and he was determined do _something_. All those times he would waste sitting meekly among everyone else, his voice so small it barely even registered, his opinions so bottled up after years of being forced down in favor of compromise that he felt fit to choke. Well, now there would be no compromise. He was through with being stepped on and just taking it, as if he was too resigned to protest. His fingers shifted back up to the black bandanna on his arm, skimming over the material and imagining Sadiq's flashing eyes underneath, his beaming smile—those stupid _Phantom of the Opera_ quotes he used to recite in a half-assed attempt at romance. It used to be that Matthew would cry every time he thought about the man and all the simple things he had noticed but never appreciated about him. He was far from grieving now. He was seething, and with every brush of that fabric under his fingertips he could feel the vengeful snake coiling in his belly, rearing, ready to crawl up this throat and strike. It had devoured everything but anger and, Matthew, who was so unaccustomed to it, was close to boiling over before the burners were even lit.

 _I'm doing this for you,_ he thought, white-knuckled and brooding. Another soldier passed by, and the urge to strangle him was almost suffocating. But he abstained, knowing full well that more would come in time, that he would have his revenge a hundred fold when they lined up to meet him like chickens on a slaughter belt. _No matter what anyone says, I'm doing it. You deserve that much._ It had to be soon now, any second, and Matthew swore his heart was determined to count each and every one with enough force to break his ribs in two. Everything in him was stiff, wound, not exactly poised but _ready_. His fingers were making another trip to his upper arm when he heard something hissed into his ear. His mind hadn't registered that it was from his earpiece, that it was Todd's voice saying _"Now"_ , but he was moving before he could process. Somewhere at the back of his mind, another voice shouted that he needed to reconnect, he needed to keep his wits about him, but the next second he had his knife out and blood was spattering warm and satisfying onto his face, and it was so easy for him to forget.

He didn't stop to estimate how many of them there were; he didn't even bother to acknowledge their faces. They were inhuman, as far as he was concerned—physically they displayed all of the characteristics, but without the mental capacity for intelligent thought, how much more different were they from animals?

Matthew kept the thought in his head as he pulled his knife out of one soldier, barely releasing his body before jamming his blade beneath another's ribs. If he was as thoughtful as he had been, then he would note that these men were just as much victims as he himself was, that killing them would provide them with some mercy if not done so savagely. Matthew, however, had left that part of him behind for now, and he intended to funnel every ounce of his anger through his weapon, every regret, every memory of _then_ , and the question of _why, why, what did I ever do?_

He didn't know how many he killed, but judging from the stickiness of his face and hands it must have been a good dozen. It would have been more, he conceded, if he had merely dispatched them like he would game instead of stabbing them until he saw blood dribble from their mouths. But then he saw Sadiq, shot through, terrified, sucked down the river as if he was something to be disposed of, and Matthew's rationality evaporated as quickly as his knife fell.

With every stab, the blade went through easier, his muscles adjusting to the give of flesh. He used to be sickened by human blood, horrified at even the mention of killing. Now, though, it was different. Now he had a reason not to be scared or squeamish, the reason incarnate wrapped around his arm and doused in red just as he himself was, soaking up the retribution Matthew provided it. _They hurt you._ Another soldier, grabbed by the collar of that stupid turtleneck, gagging as he was pulled back to receive a clean slice across the throat. _They shot you._ The dead man kicked down, making way for another soldier, Matthew hissing through gritted teeth as the man's blade caught his cheek instead of his neck, growling as he stabbed the soldier between his neck and shoulder. _They drowned you._ The soldier was still brandishing his knife, staggering as blood welled warm and sticky between his fingers, and, incredulous, Matthew smote him down, driving his blade deep into an ear. No screams, no whimpers, no cries, just a slow, painful, silent death. He killed them like rats, just as they had killed Sadiq like a rat and thrown his waterlogged body to the wolves for a feast. Matthew brought forth an image of Sadiq's body, the curves and dips he had only seen a couple of times but which were permanently imprinted behind his eyes with his death, pictured the yellow fangs tearing everything he loved apart and nothing else seemed to matter but inflicting a similar pain on those who were compatriots to the soulless murderers on the cold shore where it all ended, seeming closer than it did far away.

He was in the middle of carving into a soldier's belly when he was grabbed from behind. For a moment he was utterly petrified, trembling fingers losing their grasp on his knife. It _clinked_ to the floor, and his heart echoed the noise as if it was thunder, but then the memories pulsed through him again and he was digging his heels into the man's shins until he was released. The soldier had just enough time to steady himself and fix him with those hollow eyes before Matthew retrieved his assault rifle and pounded a few more hollows into him.

Matthew's knife was kicked away further into the fray, and he wasn't about to waste his time trying to find it. The blade had become bent with the amount of force he had been using, but he was hardly surprised to find it damaged so. He didn't think on it, how far he had gone, continuing to direct lead into the mass of shifting bodies. He was in a haze, his mind fuzzy and far away, and if it wasn't for experience he might have shot some of his own men as they rushed to create a wall between him and the angry swell of Organization ants. He was constantly having to readjust to avoid hitting them, and he became angrier with every sidestep he was forced to take. He _deserved_ to gun every one of the opposition soldiers down, and his guards were standing in his way even after he had worked so hard to break down the barriers that had been holding him back from doing what he wanted—what he was _entitled_ to do—for centuries. A sudden desire to move his aim to the Resistance fighters corralling him like an animal crossed his mind and made the tips of his fingers tingle, but before it could be determined whether or not his conscience would reemerge and prevent him from doing so, he saw a flicker out of the corner of his eye, knew who it was, kept shooting between his guards as a trickle of sense came back to him.

Matthew heard Kiku's words, noted the veiled admonition in his voice. _They shot Sadiq, why can't I shoot them?_ "I lost my knife," was his simple excuse, impersonal, distant, his finger busy on the trigger. He could feel Kiku watching him, could practically feel his eyes burning into him with the intensity they so often possessed, and Matthew felt offense as acidic as bile snaking up his throat. The man was clearly covered from head to toe in blood—more so than Matthew himself. Matthew didn't deserve such an expression, not when he could never again see Sadiq's expressions.

When Matthew's targets began to retreat, he utterly boiled. How dare they run away when they had pursued his little group, had abused and hurt and killed, and were now meeting their would-be victims on even ground? _Chickenshit_ , Matthew thought, Jeanne barely crossing his mind, because he wasn't chickenshit now, far from it. His muscles bunched, almost prepared to take off after them and douse them in a haze of bullets if not for the fact that he had to reload. He released the magazine and retrieved another from his vest, eyes trained, unblinking, on the shadows fading into the tunnels. He gritted his teeth. "They've run off." With the threat gone, Matthew's wits slowly returned to him, and he finally had the sense to look at Kiku, his essential partner. He pried his fingers off of his rifle and let it slap against his back in its sling, his hands aching from holding his weapons so hard. His skin felt thick and stiff, and he ran the back of his hand along his forehead, smearing it with the blood of the soldiers. He stared and felt Kiku staring as well.

"Are you hurt?"

Matthew glanced up, followed the man's gaze to his hands. "Not mine. Someone else's."

Kiku continued to stare, and the longer he did the more that admonishing glint in his eyes manifested. Matthew could feel his senses starting to take leave and fully intended to counter whatever Kiku was prepared to say about him when he saw Danny come running toward them.

The man appeared out of place in such garb, with his scraggly goatee and thick spectacles. He doubled over, chest heaving, pushing his glasses up his sweaty nose and rasping, "H-hey guys, we… we need to g-get moving."

Matthew's rifle slipped around to his front, as if in response, and he pushed it once again to his back, the burning in his gut returning and his fingers running along the bandanna on his arm with the mention of pursuit."Yeah, we'd better." He tried not to sound too anticipatory, but Kiku's gaze snapped to him anyway as if he was a child about to cross the street without looking both ways. He went on nonetheless. He'd had countries drown him out before. Not this time. "So, I guess we should split up…?" he suggested casually, despite Kiku's knowing look.

"No." _As expected._ "We need to stay together to protect Dan." _Oh, is_ that _the reason?_

Kiku's gaze brooked no argument, and as much as Matthew wanted to leave to solve his own ends, his conscience chose that time to worm its way to the forefront of his mind and tell him off. Conflicted, legs itching to run in the other direction and eyes watching Kiku turn and begin to walk away, Matthew finally sighed and decided that he wouldn't have any sort of satisfying retribution if he went off alone and was outnumbered. Matthew followed, and he swallowed his dislike of the older man's confident stride, how he didn't even bother looking back, as if he knew Matthew would follow as he always had, like a puppy. Matthew was starting to heat with anger but was soon to catch himself. _Look at me,_ he thought with exasperation. _I'm getting short with_ Kiku _._ Carlos would know how to calm him. Sometimes, when Matthew had been intent upon marching down to Alfred's house and giving him a piece of his mind for once, Carlos would catch him and hold him on the couch until Matthew became so exhausted from struggling that he would fall asleep. He could still feel the man's plush stomach cushioning his head, hear his heart beating like it would never beat again. Yet Matthew's eyes were dry and his throat was clear of grief. With every presented memory, the desire for revenge only grew stronger. After all, he was solely responsible for giving them some sort of justice. And he would gladly undertake any method he could to see that they had their due.

His earpiece crackled with static, and he could hear Todd. The man sounded excited, finally in his element, and a weight was lifted off of Matthew's shoulders he hadn't even known was there. The defenses would be one less thing to worry about.

But then the man started dealing out orders— _Arthur_ this and _Red_ that, and soon he, Kiku, Danny, and their combined guard were swerving around bends and racing down yawning passageways in uncharted frenzy while the unchecked defenses roared to life around them. Kiku was fast and always kept well ahead them, Matthew and the others (especially Danny, who was making frequent stops to disable the defenses as requested by Todd and puffing the entire way) struggling to keep up. Danny stopped again and Matthew with him, as much as he wanted to keep going to take out as many Organization soldiers as he could, and then he heard, _"Matthew, Kiku, pick up the pace and go left."_

The order was so abrupt that Matthew hadn't the time to pick up on the undertone of panic in Todd's voice before he was turning on his heel and racing down the length of the tunnel. His rifle slapped against his back almost in time with his heart, and he saw Kiku who had doubled back, now on the move as well. His eyes were locked straight ahead, so intent was he on catching even a single opposition soldier crossing their path, so much so that he didn't notice another group making a sharp turn around the corner. Matthew skidded to a halt, hands going instinctively for his rifle, but then he noticed the wide, teary eyes, fatigue-flushed cheeks, and frantic expressions of women captives and their children. There was even a baby with them, swaddled against the dank, held tightly against a young girl's chest. All Matthew could do was stare. It was such an anomaly to see something so pure in a place so corrupt. He looked at the baby and the baby looked back, its round eyes observing the blood on his skin and clothes as if in judgment and, somehow, Matthew felt ashamed. The Canadian was entranced to the point that he was deaf to the exchanges between Kiku and some of the women of the group, only coming to when he was nearly thrown flat onto his face as if a giant hand had pushed him over and was holding him down.

Matthew knew there must be screaming, he knew there must be some sort of catastrophe happening and that he was right in the middle of it all, but he couldn't pinpoint _where_ it was coming from and what to avoid, his only guide being the sharp trill stabbing his eardrums and the searing heat at his back. He felt numb to everything, as if his mind had taken flight and left his body to deal with the consequences. Running on adrenaline that burned more than the fire sweeping up to him, Matthew managed to get his hands under him and push himself up, stumbling a bit before running at a slant. He scraped up against a wall, sure that he shrieked in alarm at the burning sting he was met with, deaf as he was, and he finally regained his balance, not bothering with his bearings as he struck out for the end of the tunnel that looked so dark and close and _cool_. He didn't know who was behind him, who was in front of him, or even where he was, and he didn't care. _Away, away!_ his mind screamed. _Away, get away!_

And Matthew did get away, though not as far as his brain saw him fit to go. He was forced to stop as a chunk of rock smashed into the floor before him, sending cracks rippling out, some forming ridges beneath his feet and nearly making him topple over. Then Matthew was _forced_ to stop and think about where he was going, about where everyone was and what he was running from. And just as soon as his mind slowed enough to perceive, pain flooded his system, stemming from what felt like his charred back and battered limbs. His face felt foreign, empty of something; at some point as he was fleeing his glasses had flown off, and he wasn't even slightly inclined to turn back to find them.

He was just skirting the rock blocking his path when he felt pebbles and dust rain down on him, making him hack. He peered up and he immediately wished he hadn't; a whole portion of arched concrete ceiling was plummeting down to meet him. The sight was made all the worse with the return of his hearing, so that he could experience the exact moment of his death with shocking clarity in the form of crushing rocks and swallowing darkness.

_"Just… stay safe, okay?"_

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: NO, I'M SORRRRRYYYY! TT^TT. Ugh, I've been so distracted this week, and I just wanted to get this chapter _right_ , so I pushed and I pushed and... yeah, it's Wednesday, isn't it? Fail.

Anyway, sorry for the delay (there may be more in the future, just so you're prepared-it might be that I will just release one chapter Saturday and another Sunday), but the school year is winding down and I'm getting thrown projects left and right and exams and scholarships and research papers and anthologies and college and... I'm just waiting to drop, but at least spring break is around the corner, yay! But I have shit to do over the break, uggghhhh... it's like they conspire and give everything out at the same time. Annoying, really. But at least I'll be staying home for the break, THANK GOD. I don't wanna go ANYWHERE THANK YOU. Just gimme some chocolate and Hetalia smut and I'll be good. Really, all I'll be doing is catching up on fics and writing this one. So, how'd ya like Canada? Kinda dark and moody, but hey you'd be too if you lost two of the sexiest guys EVER. Like, Canada had it NICE.

Yuck, excessive use of caps, but whatever. It's 10:30 at night and I really should be going to bed... but I know I'll just end up staying up till 1 'cause I'm a masochist. But writers are supposed to be tortured... right? XD

The big reveal is next! Until then, consider that password. ;)


	115. Doubt

**Poor Italy. :'(**

Warning: Violence, gore, fight scene, weapons, threats, mention of GerIta, mental torture.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

_"I've loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night."_

—Galileo Galilei

**Doubt**

Feliciano was so caught up in his thoughts that he didn't hear Todd's signal.

He had been standing before the doors to the Expansion Center, every subtle movement on the other side making him flinch. He half expected a savage beast to burst out and gobble him up, and his reasoning wasn't that far off; indeed a beast with many limbs, heads, disowned mouths, and blind eyes was growing ever larger just feet away, behind a pair of doors that were not nearly thick enough.

" _You can't cry when you're out there, Feli," Ludwig whispered, standing beside him, hands brushing. But the German did not lace his fingers with Feliciano's like he usually did. His thumb was poised over the button on his watch, both hands jabbed to midnight. He was staring straight ahead, forget-me-not eyes unblinking and flinty, and although he was not looking at him, Feliciano could still feel his eyes on him, begging him to listen as they so often did. "You must not cry, Feli, not in front of them. Fear can be a form of strength if you know how to channel it."_

_"And h-how do I channel it?" He was ashamed that his voice sounded so small, so meek. He waited for Ludwig's lips to downturn in disgust._

_But the German remained just as stony-faced as he had a second before. "It is different for everyone. Swallow your fear, and it will find a place somewhere else as something else. When the time comes, you will know."_

_Already Feliciano could feel the fear crawling up from his belly to rest in his gravelly throat. "I-I don't think I c-can…"_

_"You can," Ludwig assured. Somehow the brushing of the German's hand against his own seemed more intimate than even their first lovemaking mere hours earlier. "You will."_

Yet, even as the minutes ticked by, certainly long enough for him to _know_ , he only became more and more frightened. And it wasn't helping that most of that fear was stemming from the fact that he was incapable of living up to Ludwig's expectations.

 _I'm sorry, Luddy,_ he thought, lowering his head as an Organization soldier walked by, hot tears rolling down his cheeks and dropping onto his shoes. He clenched and unclenched his clammy hands, certain that those black boots, so professionally polished, had never experienced tears on their surface, because crying wasn't _allowed_ , was _condemned._ All those men wearing the same black boots were surely not crying like he was, were brave and strong and confident. Feliciano was just a coward and didn't even deserve to wear the _enemy's_ shoes. He was useless.

Holy Rome's voice wormed its way into his head. _"Feli, you are so strong! Why are you scared?"_

_Because I'm not strong, Nonno, you're wrong._

_"You have the blood of one of the most powerful former empires in the world running through your veins!"_

_It's different, Nonno. I'm different. I'm not as brave as you. I will never be._

_"Don't listen to what anyone else says and don't doubt yourself."_

_How can I not? All my life I've been like this, how could I change so suddenly?_

_"You have so much in you that no one has seen."_

_I don't. I don't have anything._

_"When you show your true colors they won't know what hit them."_

_What colors? The only one I know is white._

Feliciano's eyes focused on the dark, wet spots spreading on the toe of his boot, trailing down the sides. _Why am I even here? I'm not capable of anything. I am nothing._

He sniffed and his shoe became blurry as moisture flooded his eyes. _Luddy, I'm scared. Why did you have to leave me?_

It was then that he saw Red move out of the corner of his eye, heard what must have been the remnants of the signal buzzing in his ear. He couldn't believe it, that it was happening so soon, that he was nowhere near _prepared_ for anything. He vaguely wondered if anyone else felt as helpless as he did, highly doubted it, as Red made her way to the doors, turning to him and hissing, "Step back, Feli."

Feliciano felt his heart jump into his throat even before anything had happened, which made him feel even more ashamed. Surely Ludwig wasn't this nervous, surely he was the only one being this ridiculous? He had put himself in danger before, right? Faced many things that threatened to destroy him, yes? Then _why_ was he acting like this? Why couldn't he summon whatever strength he had before in those turbulent, uncertain times when he needed it most?

Then he saw Red pause, saw suspicion then shock cross her face, and felt guilty that it made him feel confident that someone else was experiencing what he himself was. But just as soon that fierce spark returned to Red's eyes that Feliciano could never duplicate, and the Italian was plunged back into his spiral of doubt.

He was close to flying down the nearest tunnel when he heard the doors moan open. He could barely hold down whimpers as he listened to Red's exchange with the guards, almost screamed when he heard the deafening gunshot, then another. He didn't look, but he knew the guards were bleeding, dying. He gasped and hiccuped, covering his ears and looking away, face hot and sticky with tears. Even so, he could still hear the marching of soldiers from both sides, surging forward like a storm-tossed wave meeting a rocky shore.

Red shouted, "Move in! Kill or capture—none get away!" and when the Resistance among the sea of Organization soldiers responded wholeheartedly, Feliciano wanted to shout no, don't do it, don't start, because that would mean he wouldn't know when or how it would end. That they wouldn't be able to go back.

Unsure of his place in the bloody mess that was commencing before him, Feliciano went back step-by-step until he was pressed against the wall, safely concealed behind one of the open doors. His breathing quickened and his heart felt three times its size as it beat like a drum within him, as if in imitation of the dozens of feet marching from within the compound, the combined force of their footfalls making the thick door vibrate against him.

"Feli, over here!"

Feliciano heard Red like he was dreaming, as if her voice was reality trying to wake him up. But Feliciano knew what a nightmare he would be shunted into if he emerged from his safe little corner of denial, and he stood there, frozen, and so full of fear that he knew gaining any strength from it was impossible.

That was before a bullet nicked the floor near his foot, and then Feliciano took off, his dream shattered. He saw Red, how her arms were outstretched, beckoning, and the Italian gladly rushed to her side, moving so fast that he almost knocked her over, unable to properly stop himself. As soon as he appeared relatively lucid, Red turned to him and began to give him instructions. Feliciano heard her but didn't listen; he was too snared by Red's eyes, how they seemed so focused and determined, how he could never emulate such strength, not even with many more centuries of experience behind him.

 _She's not even a country, and she still knows what she's doing,_ Feliciano thought hopelessly. _What am I doing? What is my purpose? I don't belong here._

Before he had the chance to pose more damaging questions to himself, Red was gathering her guards and assigning Feliciano his own. Red asked him a question, something important, and although Feliciano didn't fully comprehend what she was saying, he nodded, worrying his bottom lip beneath his teeth until he broke skin. The taste of blood made his stomach churn, joining the coppery smell invading his nostrils and making him once again face the fact that he was scared to kill and be killed. He was scared of _everything_.

Red was no longer beside him, taking her place at the head of the vanguard and leaving Feliciano behind. He could feel his guards staring at him expectantly, and all the Italian could do was wring his hands and wonder why he had ever been entrusted with anything. He felt a hand at his back, and his head shot up, eyes wide with horror.

He hated the empathetic look the soldier gave him, imagined that the man was wondering how in the world he had gotten stuck babysitting a helpless weakling when he could have been put to better use elsewhere. Guilty welled all the more in Feliciano's gut when he was told "Go on, we'll be right behind you," as if he were an infant taking his first steps.

Feliciano swallowed his shame and let it settle deep into his stomach, hoping it held down all of the other things wanting to come up. He worked his way up to a tentative run, giving alarmed cries and throwing out his arms with every detonated defense like an imbecile. He dashed through the doors with his guards around him, shielding him and sending bullets into the mass of Organization pursuers. Feliciano seemed so incompetent among them, so unimportant. He flitted clumsily around like a fledgling while his guards took stances and struck with the might and precision of vipers. Beside him, a guard's reflexes failed for a mere moment, enough for a bullet to tear through him, exploding out of his back in a surge of blood and bone. The Resistance soldier screamed and fell to the floor, face up and staring, forcing Feliciano to look straight into his dying eyes and observe the bloody mess the gunshot had made of him. The Italian's legs wobbled and his hand shot to his mouth, bile creeping up his throat.

He was barely within the doors, hadn't even begun his mission, and he was already prepared to bolt. Everyone around him was still running, fighting, _dying_ , and Feliciano couldn't do a _damn thing._ He stopped and surveyed, trying his best not to throw up when his eyes moved over the bodies with entrails swimming in bloody pools at their guts, over splatters of red and flesh and pieces of internal organs. It was then that he decided: he could not do it.

 _I'm sorry, Nonno._ He turned on his heel and ran, like he always had. Away from his problems and everything he knew. But it was for the best. _I will only hold them back. I know I'm a burden even if they do not tell me. I see the way they look at me. I hear the whispers._

And, as if summoned by his thoughts, the whispers _came._ Feliciano had barely rounded a corner into an empty part of the compound when his mind was attacked, knifed, sending him to his knees. He screamed and his hands flew to his ears, crouching, trying to make himself as small as possible. He could still hear the fighting, the gunshots, the death, however distant they sounded, and he managed to crawl into a niche in the wall. He pulled his knees up to his chest and tore at his hair, forced to cram himself into the tiny space and ignore the dust and little bits of rock shaken from the ceiling by the blasts nearby. Suddenly, nothing else mattered but those whispers.

_"The stars will fall."_

_No, no, please… leave me alone!_

_"There is no room for them. They will destroy everything."_

_Stop! Stop!_

_"The bloody head is coming. It will arrive within the hour. You must stop it."_

Feliciano began to sob, clutching himself, rocking back and forth. _Please… stop… I can't…_

_"If you fail, they will all die. Their deaths will be your fault."_

_No, no, no!_

_"Yes. And you will fail, won't you? Look at you, so weak."_

_Leave me alone… go away._ His eyes grew hot with fresh tears, fat drops rolling down his cheeks. _Luddy, help me. I need you._

_"You can't run from your problems anymore, Feliciano. It won't just go away, and no one else can help you."_

Feliciano took his hands from his ears, used them to hide his tear-sticky face. _But what can I do?_

A pause, and then a click, as if a switch had been flipped in Feliciano's head. _"Find me."_

The Italian sat bolt upright, frozen, eyes wide. Fear gripped him harder than it ever had, and he scrambled out of the niche like it was a nest of ants ready to devour him, finding strength enough to stand and examine the alcove, wracked with tremors. _I-it's not the same. The voice. It's—_

All too late he felt a presence behind him, cutting through the echoing voice as sharp as a knife. "The Overlord is expecting you, Italy."

Before Feliciano could draw breath enough to scream, a hand shot forth from behind, pressing a rag to his face. At first he panicked, his mouth and nose covered, breathing in the soiled material. And then he felt strangely calm, melting like butter until everything went dark and silent.

* * *

He cracked open his eyes, unsure of how much time had passed since he had been knocked out, having no concept of it at all. He was met with the harsh glare of a bare bulb dangling above his head, encasing his whole body with light while all around him darkness loomed like a plotting menace. His vision was blurry, and it took a minute or two before his eyes could properly adjust to the bright assault, after which he confirmed that he was no longer in the compound, or, judging by the absence of the blasts, no longer in the tunnels whatsoever. He felt drowsy and weak, a bit limp, his muscles having somehow forgotten how to function. His mouth was dreadfully dry, and his head was pounding. He tried to lift a hand to rub it to ease some of the discomfort but found that he was strapped down to some sort of free-standing trap, his wrists tied behind whatever he was attached to and his legs, knees, and feet straining under coils of tightly-wrapped cord. He intended to yell, but when he tried to take air in through his mouth he could not. Someone had effectively rendered him more helpless than he already was, using duct tape to keep him quiet for good measure. What was going _on_?

 _Oh God, where am I?_ At least he could still see. His eyes darted around, taking in the full scope of his vision, realizing that he could see absolutely nothing outside of his bleak little spotlight of searing white. _What am I doing here? Did I walk here without knowing? Did I fall through something?_ Then he recalled the voice, how greatly it had changed and how suddenly. _The voice. Did it bring me here?_

"Oh, you've woken up."

A very different voice made him stiffen, so much so that he rattled his trap. His head turned, eyes moving over everything they could find (which wasn't much other than blackness), the words echoing as if they were in some large empty room. He didn't notice the familiarity of the voice until it continued, "I was afraid I'd have to do it myself, which would not be nearly as fun. I like my captives to experience a bit of mystery upon coming to. Builds suspense, don't you think?"

Of course Feliciano could not respond, but if he had the ability he could not have brought himself to. Because at that very moment, a shadow moved among shadows just outside of his little, deceptively safe circle of light, growing in size and shape until a whole person separated from the dark, as if formally a shadow themselves.

Hazel eyes met wide, teary amber, the former so full of cunning that a whimper floated unbidden up Feliciano's throat. "Ah, so you _do_ remember me? Well, how could you forget with your brother's grieving?" Jeanne leaned in, and Feliciano shivered when he felt her nose brush against his skin. He could have sworn he felt scales. "How was he, your brother? Romano, was it? How'd he take seeing his lover's brain splattered all over the floor and wall? Did he realize that it was smaller than average? Then again, I figure it was hard to tell. Marvin specialized in headshots; he would make sure he aimed so that there would be nothing left but pieces of that egotistical bastard." Her lips parted to reveal off-white teeth, her smile like ice sliding down Feliciano's spine. "And how about you? I assume it was your first time being that close to gore. His head looked like mush, didn't it, with bits of bone mixed in? It looked ugly. Everyone looks ugly on the inside, Italy, and you found out that day. You and your friends and even I look the same inside, just as ugly, the same deep down. I guess that's a way of telling us to never trust anyone. Well, you certainly learned with me, didn't you?" She reached out, running a finger over his cheek, through blood and tears, and dust. It felt alarmingly warm, almost aflame. Feliciano jerked his head away and shut his eyes. He couldn't bear to look at Jeanne's face, into her eyes which held the buried memories of Gilbert's death, of Lovino's suicide.

"Your brother isn't here," Jeanne continued, and Feliciano hated that she could tell what he was thinking just from his reactions. "We have eyes in unexpected places. You thought that you were running away? Right. The Overlord knows all. You ran straight into our trap, and just as your brother was a coward for killing himself you're just as much a coward." Feliciano's eyes were still closed, but he could feel her getting closer, warm breath puffing on his face. "You couldn't kill yourself if you tried, could you?" she whispered cruelly. "You're too scared. All you can do is run away, but I… oh, I will always catch you."

Feliciano felt her back away and with hesitation opened his eyes just a bit to confirm her location. He didn't need any more surprises. Sure enough, she was still standing there, staring at him with that twisted smile he couldn't fathom having believed was even close to sane, and as if drawn, his eyes wandered down to her belly and immediately went wide.

Jeanne noticed his gawking and patted the enlarged bulge. "Like it? It's a reward from the Overlord. Oh, I think I can feel it moving… watch, it's really very stunning." Feliciano knew he should look away but some morbid curiosity kept his eyes in place and he witnessed Jeanne's stomach growing larger, no—it was _moving_. Horrified, he met Jeanne's gaze again, not knowing if looking at her face or her belly was worse. Her smile softened to one of content, a dreamy sort of content that told Feliciano that she was far out of touch with reality. This was Jeanne's world he was trapped in, and she was calling all the shots. "I didn't lie about them beating my son to death inside me," Jeanne continued, her eyes glazed over, as if recalling the agonizing memory didn't faze her. She appeared just as much a robot as every other Organization soldier, except for the fact that the Overlord's influence had played a minimal role in her psychosis; her unstable mind had been easy enough to manipulate and the rest of the madness she supplied on her own. "I was sad for a while… yes, very sad. He was everything I had. I wandered around after I gave birth to him and buried his body—he was so tiny and fragile, had bruises from the abuse like I had—and I was close to just ending everything. But then," here a smile stretched her lips almost grotesquely, " _Then_ the Organization picked me up again. At first I fought them, told them I hated them, they killed everyone I knew and took everything I loved. But the Organization can give back. Did you know that?" Her gaze snapped to Feliciano, made him freeze with the intensity of it. "They had me in the Expansion Program, found that I was too damaged to reproduce." Jeanne's eyes went unfocused once again. "At least not the _usual_ way."

Feliciano stared, frightened by her appearance but too scared to take his eyes off of her for fear of what she may do while he wasn't looking. He didn't like what she was saying. There was something… _off_ in her words. Very off.

"I was sad. All my life I wanted someone who could love me unconditionally. Was that so hard to achieve? And yet it was. I felt like dying, but I knew the Overlord would be disappointed. So I asked to see the Overlord one day, begged on my knees, said I'd do anything, _anything_ for him if only I could have just a sliver of happiness in my life. He was hesitant at first, but he eventually let me in, as merciful as he is. He saw my potential which those other sow sluts don't possess. He said that he would give me what I wanted, that he had a very special mission just for me. He gave me a baby." Feliciano's heart began to pound. Something was definitely wrong. But Jeanne appeared at ease, staring at a point in the distance through the gloom, the words pouring from her mouth like they didn't hold the terrible weight he knew them to have. He flinched when she chuckled a bit. "Not himself, of course. I am beneath him, as is everyone else in the world, and it wouldn't do to have him sullied. But he gave me an injection, and it took. It began to grow. I wasn't scared," she stated suddenly in a voice that was unnecessarily aggressive. She still appeared to be talking to shadows. "No, I wasn't scared. It was a blessing I was receiving, and although it has never been done before I was honored to take the risk. And I even agreed to go after you and your friends to test the baby's strength." Her eyes darted back to meet Feliciano's so quickly that his heart nearly jumped into his throat. They were full of glee, almost maniacally so. "The Overlord made a promise to me. He said if I did as he said he would reward me with what I've wanted more than anything else in the world: unconditional love. And _everyone_ in the world will love me soon enough, once I start contributing in my own way to the Expansion Program. Because I will be everyone's mother. They won't have a choice then, will they? They'll _have_ to love me, no matter what. And that means they won't hurt me, like everyone else has."

Her expression suddenly became excessively bitter, seething with scorn for the nation that stood bound and scared before her. "And _you_ , you will watch. You'll watch me give birth to what you and your bastard friends never bothered to give two fucks about, even when you saw the signs. Why would you anyway, when you didn't even care about all the little people? You had your immortality, you had your decades of relaxation, your fun flinging shit at each other and not caring how many died because of it, how many families lost their own sons." Feliciano peered back down at Jeanne's belly, and she caught him staring, rolling up her shirt to allow him to further wallow in the horror. He watched her hand pass over the overly round arc, bile once again burning up his throat when he clearly saw what must be a limb of the thing inside her form a substantial ridge beneath her skin. The flesh was stretched oblong and deformed, veins as black as tar winding their way around the monstrous bulge. He could have sworn he saw them pumping, feeding whatever ravenous creature was growing inside of her.

"Hmm, I'll be a mother." Jeanne's voice returned to its airy tone, and Feliciano didn't know which frightened him more. "And everyone will love me. Even the Overlord. As for you," her eyes had returned to the shadows again, addressing him but not sparing him a glance, insignificant as he was to her, "your mental perception poses a great risk to the Overlord's power; you will surely inspire rebellion. Now, I can't allow that. I made a promise as well. When this baby is born, it will need to feed. But how selfish would I be to keep the birth from the Overlord's eyes?" Hazel eyes met wide, teary amber. "A change of scenery is in order. It would be fitting to have my child born in the Core, and I daresay you'll have some guests to say your last goodbyes to—if you're not a coward enough to do so."

 _"The bloody head,"_ the whispers hissed. _"The bloody head is coming, and you won't be able to stop it. You're not strong enough; you will see this baby born and swallow the world before you find strength enough to stop your whimpering."_

Feliciano hung his head, temples throbbing, body aching, done. He felt the restraints, the sturdiness of them. Ludwig surely could have broken out of them, but someone as weak and useless as Feliciano would be trapped in them forever. There really was no going back.

_You're right._

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Ahh, so, I have several valid excuses as to why this didn't come out earlier. 1, I'm on break, and to my parents that means free hands for manual labor. Since it's suddenly gotten warm outside, that's where I was for much of the weekend, lugging shit up and down the giant-ass hill that is my backyard. Now I ache all over ('cause I'm a lazy fuck with noodle arms who can't lift for shit) and my allergies are being a fucking _bitch_ as always, which is very distracting to say the least. Then it kept going from 50 degrees to 90 all week (our ancient air conditioner keeps shitting the bed, that's nice) and, goddammit Nature pick a season! 2, I had to go to an open house and take a last minute French placement test (didn't do as shitty as I thought, that's a plus... only to find out I won't have to take a French class till my second year *facepalm*), 3, Today I went to register, which was just a big fun-filled hour of sitting and sorting, AKA I didn't get anything done for this fic. 4, I have yet to start on the shit-ton of homework and projects I have to do before May, so all posts may be a little slow coming out. But don't take that as bad! I'm gonna finish this fic if it kills me, I'm so close to the end. It would be terrible just to say, "Fuck it," and let it die. That's one huge cliffhanger, lol.

*sigh* Anyway, at least I finished this bit for you, and it's only... Tuesday. Well, whatever. You got Italy at least, in his semi-depressed state. And, whaddaya know? Jeanne's back! Crazy Jeanne with her monstrous pregnancy. Hehe, you'll find out later on what she's really giving birth to.

Next chapter (which I will hopefully start and finish soon) will be the last of the first part of the POVs (if that makes any sense), which means America. Prepare to meet the Overlord... next post!


	116. Blame

**Dun, dun... DUN!**

Warning: Violence, threats, weapons, gore, fight scene, mental torture, abuse.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

_"Live free or die: Death is not the worst of evils."_

—General John Stark

**Blame**

_Just their_ breathing. Black-gloved fingers clenched, leather bunching, almost tearing. _I can't stand it. The bastards don't deserve to breathe._

He hated standing there, in a nice, neat little row for the Overlord's liking. He hated being garbed in the stifling black turtleneck with that gray spiral insignia. He had done away with Texas, already damaged and irreparable as they were, to become just another perfect soldier in another perfect rank. To _conform._

His eyes darted back up to the looming building on one side of the honeycombed street, searching the broken windows. Was Yao in there, the epitome of perfection, wanting to strangle those next to him just as much? Surely not. Yao was always level-headed, acted on duty instead of desire. He would kill quickly and efficiently. The men around Alfred would receive no such mercy. They would die bleeding from more holes than they could count, and Alfred would stand over them and watch as their life poured from them in slow, pulsing waves, letting them know that they weren't nearly so perfect. He could practically hear Red's scoff.

" _So you can tell Matt not to go batshit crazy but you can't tell yourself?" She was leaning on the wall outside of the room Alfred had just come out of, green eyes piercing him with accusation. "Sad to say I'm not that surprised."_

_"You heard?" Alfred shut the door behind him and prayed that Matthew wouldn't follow him out. He didn't need anyone else hearing his daughter berate him, as she so often did. "I'm not surprised either." He turned on his heel and made his way down the hall, not knowing for certain where he was going or what he was trying to accomplish. He just didn't want to talk about his shortcomings at that moment—it was hard enough preparing himself to meet death, he needn't confront his own demons on top of it. "Don't bother bringing it up. You already know convincing me is no small matter."_

_He could hear Red following him, boots clicking along the floor so very similarly to his own. A snort of derision echoed off the cold walls. "How can you even speak with all that hypocrisy strangling your words? Amazing, really. But you always find a way."_

_Alfred sighed and stopped, turning to meet a daring, freckled face. "And you always wondered why you were punished so often as a child."_

_Red shrugged. "No, I knew. I was a little bitch—still am."_

_Alfred narrowed his eyes. "However much hypocrisy I possess you have just as much insolence. It's never left you no matter how many lessons have been drilled into your head and it's gotten you into trouble."_

_"I could say the same for you."_

_Alfred scoffed. "Many have. But when you've experienced as much as I have you'll quickly learn to ignore the jibes. I've already made it clear that I'm not changing for anyone." He removed Texas from his face and studied the bent frame, the scratched lenses, the disaster that it was, perhaps a reflection of its namesake. "It's not as if I'm the only hypocrite. Everyone's just already made their mistakes and now feel like they have the right to advise me. But no one can help you but you." He lifted his eyes to Red's and folded Texas up, sliding them into his vest. "Everyone's problems are different, and in the end we have to confront them on our own in the best way we know how. Save your advice for your younger siblings, Virginia. I have no need for it."_

_"And so that gives you the right to tell Matt to keep his temper in check?" Red practically laughed in disbelief. "Why don't you drop the act and admit you're just as bad as me?"_

_"Mattie is my brother—"_

_"And his own person," Red reminded. "He's just as old as you and can think for himself. The Red Wookiee told me what you did to that man when Marge was killed." Alfred's head snapped up, eyes wide, caught. But Red was predictably calm. "It felt good in the moment, didn't it, pounding that guy to mush? But then you were disgusted afterward, weren't you? Don't you think Mattie needs to learn in the same way? It would match your theory."_

_"I… I don't want Mattie to get hurt…"_

_"Hurt reminds us of why we sacrifice," Red told him, pushing a lock of red hair behind her ear. "I thought you already knew that, what with all your experience."_

_Alfred was uneasy about everything now—it was amazing how he could weave a protective mat to stand on and Red could so easily come around and snatch it right out from beneath his feet. She made him question everything, but then again it wasn't from him that she inherited that sense of authority. He could almost imagine her hair was blond instead of copper; the eyes, however, would still be the same. "I'm going to the Core today," he stated firmly, and Red's thick eyebrows rose into her fringe almost skeptically. "I'm gonna kill the bastard sonofabitch who thinks he has a right to take everything away without a price. He and I both may think we're entitled, but at least I have the human desire to protect what I care about. He's taken everything—my friends, my children, my trust in humanity, the ability to do my duty as a country, my ability to_ be _a country, he even went so far as to try and change my name." Alfred let his words sink in, and although Red's expression changed little he could tell from her eyes that he had made an impression. "Can't I at least have the freedom to do anything I can to ensure that everyone I love is safe?"_

Red hadn't had an answer for that; she had simply nodded and walked away back down the hall, hands clasped behind her back. Alfred could say she appeared almost contemplative, but then again that wasn't Red. She didn't dwell much on the possible outcomes, the scenarios, even the planning, choosing to observe the _now_ almost exclusively; Penny was usually the one who made her stop and acknowledge that harboring such a strict mindset was dangerous and irrational. Now that Red was missing her sensible half, Alfred wasn't so sure if he wanted her anywhere near the frontlines. But then again, she had proven a great asset to their mission, infiltrating the Organization and gathering allies with unexpected efficiency. Who was he to deny her the right to whatever retribution was set aside especially for her to claim? Similar thoughts arose about Matthew and Arthur and Ivan. They all had their own unique hatred for the Organization. Should he just step aside as well when it applied to them?

 _Please, don't let anything bad happen to them,_ Alfred begged to any entity he could think of. _I don't know what I would do if they were gone. I'd gladly hurt for them a thousand times over, just please remind them that they have someone who will miss them if they put themselves in too much danger._

Alfred didn't address the fact that he was basically begging for everyone to be sensible while also excluding himself. The Organization had taken hold in his country, his _capital_. He owed everyone, and he would set it right by taking down what he had, by all intents and purposes, _allowed_ to infect everyone and everything. He had made many mistakes, had neglected to fix some, and now all of those screw-ups were being thrown right back in his face. He deserved it and he was glad to confront them, to finally throw the weight off his back.

 _Mattie was tortured because they thought he was me,_ Alfred reminded himself, teeth grinding together. The ache that bloomed in his jaw was almost sweet. _Artie almost died, Ivan was shot, Francis was raped, Sadiq and Gilbert were killed, Lovino killed himself, Mattie thought he was so alone that it wasn't worth living, countless others have suffered._

 _"Your mission is to kill the guards in HQ and makes sure none of the Organization get past you. You will wait for Yao and Team Bravo to join you and once Todd has all the defenses down, you will all venture down into the Core together."_ He could see Red's piercing green gaze on him as if she were standing before him, leaning over her 'Checkmate' plans and eyeing him critically. _"No excuses, no deviations."_

 _I'm sorry, Red. But you knew what I was going to do when you put me here. I wasn't about to let anyone else die for my mistakes._ Alfred peered up at the gray clouds swallowing up the pink morning sky and saw a snowflake drift down to him. _I even explained it to you,_ told _you after you overheard me with Mattie. And still you put me here._ Then he came to a realization, the snowflake barely felt against his forehead. He recalled those green eyes, how they had regarded him not with suspicion but something else he had not altogether perceived. And now he did.

Her mouth had been warning him to follow orders but her eyes had been saying _You made a promise, now keep it._

 _You wanted me to do it. You understood._ He held down a smile. _Still so predictable. Still my Virginia._

As soon as he heard so much as a wisp of a voice through his earpiece, Alfred had his knife in his hand and a handful of an opposition guard's hair, snatching the man's head back to expose the soft arc of his throat. Before the man could gather the breath the gasp, the blade had bitten into him, blood pulsing out. Alfred's hands and arms felt warm and sticky as he dropped the dying man, meeting another who was rushing at him with an upward stab beneath the ribs. Not a sound passed the man's lips as he fell forward, and Alfred stepped over him, satisfaction pooling in his core just as the soldier's blood pooled beneath his dying body.

_That was for Arthur._

He heard someone trying to sneak up behind him, boots whispering over blood and disturbing a dropped knife. Alfred turned and drove the point of his own through the soldier's head, his blade submerging only halfway, blood trickling down and streaking the man's face red. Even as Alfred forced the knife deeper, determined to slice into that empty brain, to evoke some sort of reaction, anything to know that this man felt just as much pain as all who had encountered the Organization had, the face remained blank and the eyes unfocused. Growling in frustration, Alfred twisted before tugging his weapon free, watching the man fall to the ground, head carved open and leaking like a melon.

_That was for Mattie._

He moved to search for another soldier to down but was stopped in his tracks. He stared, shock rippling through him at the sight of the man's mushy brain; it was dribbling out, completely black, just like his uniform. _Oh God,_ he thought, bile burning its way up his throat. His hand shot to his mouth and he had to look away. What he'd killed wasn't human, how could it be? It was just a shell, harboring the sinister extension of the Overlord's mind. He had stolen their identities just as Alfred's own had been stolen, liquefying their personalities with his preaching until they were so mundane they couldn't help but be controlled. The revelation came to him seemingly out of nowhere, and he stood there among all of the death and combat, feeling so very apart from it all, as if he shouldn't be there, as if he should—

_"Find me."_

Alfred's eyes went wide and his heart jumped into his throat. He was suddenly filled with a burning hatred, eating away at his sense. _You._

 _"Find me."_ The voice sounded amused, and Alfred could almost see the Overlord's sick smile, because who _else_ could it be? _"I am waiting."_

 _Bastard,_ Alfred accused, pressing on into HQ, ignoring the protests of his own guards. Not an enemy soldier so much as glanced at him, as if ordered not to, even when he was inches away, and Alfred was angry that the Overlord had such control over everything, how they were just _pawns_ in his newly constructed world. Alfred defied him outright, discarding his knife and gunning down whatever empty being he saw without so much as a glance. He entered the lobby, a clear path made for him, the sea of black-clad Organization guards parting around him as if he were the plague. Behind him, he could hear the plights of his personal guard, hear them struggle and scream and die, but he couldn't stop, not when he was so close, not when the Overlord was personally guiding him to his lair. Alfred would let the Overlord think he was in control for just a little while longer if it meant wiping him from the face of the earth.

 _"Find me,"_ the voice mocked. _"Come and find me."_

_Oh, I'll find you, you fucker. And when I do you'll wish you never tried me._

Alfred swore he could hear laughter and grew more and more furious, his footfalls more forceful, his mind more fixated on the prospect of seeing the Overlord lying dead before him, a wound for every person he had ever hurt riddling his body. _I'll rip your face off,_ Alfred vowed, pulling open a door and snapping its hinges from the wall. _No one will recognize you, just like you make everyone you touch unrecognizable._

The voice only chuckled. _"Find me."_

Alfred took the stairs he was met with two-by-two, down, down, until he came across a chain link security gate. He stopped and searched for a way in, coming up with nothing, everything locked and bolted. In utter disbelief, Alfred took to pacing and, in a fit of frustration, began shaking the chain fence like a trapped animal.

"Open up, you sick sonofabitch! If you're so eager to get your fucking face smashed in, open the _goddamn door_!"

There was a sudden _bzzzt_ and a red light clicked on, the tumblers in the locks rolling. Alfred wasted no time pushing his way in, the chain links hissing as they bounced off the steel-enforced concrete wall. Only then did he realize where he was.

 _The safe room._ Beneath the Archives. If ever there was a threat anywhere near the building, the historic documents within would drop several feet down into the floor and be locked up for protection. Just the thought of such a vile thing being anywhere near what was his almost sent him into a rage. Surely those documents were nothing but ash by now, another piece of his identity lost.

_I'm here, you bastard. You gonna come out of hiding or continue being a coward?_

A door suddenly slid open on the far side of the room behind a stack of storage boxes and crates. Alfred rushed over, crouching down. It was a small opening, maybe four feet by three. Somewhere in the back of his mind, his conscience screamed that venturing into such an enclosed space would be a bad idea, but he had to, he _had_ to. So he wedged himself into the tunnel and crawled—another of the Overlord's sick attempts meant to break down his confidence. But Alfred was more than confident. He was _sure._

 _"You made a promise,"_ he heard over and over again amid a vacuum-like silence. _"Now keep it."_

Everything was dark, and then he turned a corner, saw a small disc of artificial red light at the end of the passage, reflecting on how much he hated tunnels. His pace picked up, determined to get out and see for himself what apathy incarnate looked like, how it would feel to have the Overlord's bones crunch beneath the force of his knuckles. He wouldn't finish him off with just a bullet to the head. No, he would see the Overlord's fingers cut off one-by-one, his body semi-flayed, his face burned beyond recognition, his heart pumping all the blood in him onto the floor before feeding his remains to the fat bastards on the Council.

_"Remember who you are."_

_Arthur stood in his home, and Alfred hated the way those green eyes regarded him with such empathy, such regret. "I know what you're going through."_

_"No you,_ don't _!" Alfred smashed his fist through his table, sending splinters into his skin and all over the floor. He was frustrated to find that he was close to tears and he turned his back, embarrassed and ashamed. He felt like a child when he should feel like a man. "You didn't understand before, how can you now?"_

_Arthur sighed behind him. "America, you are being torn apart by your own people. Do you honestly think you are the first nation to experience something like this?"_

_Alfred licked his lips and scrubbed at his eyes, furious at himself, that he could let himself be so_ weak _. "Go away. You're just here to mock me, right? 'Oh, look at stupid little America, thought he could do it all on his own, now he'll go down in flames, shows him.'"_

_Arthur held down a laugh. "After all these years and your impressions of me are still horrid."_

_Alfred gave him a solemn look. "Now you're laughing at me. But that's what you came here to do, isn't it?"_

_Arthur rolled his eyes. "America, I didn't come here to mock you, I came here to give you some advice."_

_"Yeah, well you can take your advice and shove it."_

_"Just… listen to me, America." Arthur didn't move from his place, didn't walk over and put a hand on his shoulder or anything. The desire for no contact, at least, was a mutual understanding. "You're in the middle of an identity crisis. It will end. It always does. But what determines if you will be whole in the end or split down the middle is the strength to retain who you are. If you lose yourself amid the violence, well," Arthur took his hat and shuffled past him, eyes forward, sparing Alfred from more humiliation as the younger willed his tears to stop, "you may turn out to be just as bad as the cause itself."_

Alfred wished he had asked Arthur to stay instead of watching him leave and having to deal with his troubles on his own. He wished Arthur was here right now, his hand on his shoulder, his snooty, cynical laugh in his ear, but then again he also wanted Arthur as far away from here as possible. Back then, Alfred had chosen to listen for once and because of that he was whole. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, exhaling in a huff.

 _Remember,_ he told himself. _Remember, remember. You learned your lesson once._ Alfred recalled with shame how he had beat Higgins to death, had become violently ill afterward at how far gone he had been. _Don't turn into the monster that he is. That's what he wants. If I do, then he wins._

Everything was deathly quiet until Alfred was within feet of the exit, his ears met with the electronic beeps of various devices and hisses of white noise from a radio feed. Without the slightest hesitation he pushed himself out and stood, legs locked and fists clenching. Before him stretched a wall of screens, some feeding back the action that was happening throughout the tunnels and central D.C., others depicting symbols and changing calculations that Alfred had never before seen. A control board enveloped a large, high-backed chair in a blinking half-circle, a hand casually stroking a particularly large switch, its owner hidden behind the refuge of the chair.

"I found you," Alfred said with contained wrath. "I found you. Now show your fucking face."

The familiar chuckle returned, manifesting outside of Alfred's head in a sinister, intimidating echo. It was so light and curt, as if Alfred's arrival was nothing substantial. "Don't be a monster, Alfred. Just like the one you let slip in under your nose." The chair creaked as it turned, the hand retracting to rest in the Overlord's small lap. The red light illuminated the face, and just like that, Alfred's resolve turned to dust. At first all he could do was stare, too shocked to feel anything. A name rattled around in his head, but his mind refused to let him acknowledge it, that this was someone he had known for a very long time, someone he had _trusted_ , as oblivious as he had been. Then everything in him stopped spinning, settling into a definite sense reality. The name escaped him, as if it had been fighting to get out, quiet and breathy.

"Tony."

_No. You went missing. You're supposed to be dead, not…_

The gray Martian regarded him with smiling red eyes, almost lost under the equally red glare of the lights. "Alfred. It is nice to see you again."

Another word escaped that Alfred didn't altogether want to leave his lips. "Why?"

Tony shrugged. "Why not? I am the leader of a mindless race that obeys me without question with the promise of fortune and fame upon completing my mission. I had every reason to do what I have done."

Alfred's heart began to pound, suspicion welling in his gut. "You had a mission?"

Tony laughed, though his smile never showed. It was unnerving how much he had gotten away with, being so expressionless. Had he been internally scowling all those times before without Alfred's notice? "Of course I had a mission! Why else do you think I would land on this shithole of a planet?

"When I arrived here in 1947, I was only one of many sent as scouts to planets identified by my government as 'vulnerable and potentially profitable.' I was only a sleeper cell back then, just waiting for confirmation from my higher-ups and of course for the perfect opportunity to take control, which I thank you for giving me. Because of your negligence I was able to dominate this mundane world in preparation for colonization."

"Colonization?" Alfred breathed, suddenly feeling very small.

"And enslavement," Tony reasoned, lacing his fingers. "Human minds are so very easy to manipulate, it is almost laughable. Just one tiny prick and I can unravel even the strongest of men. Throw in an urge to breed and you have the perfect formula to create an army of trained soldiers, devoted so loyally to my cause. I will do everything to ensure that when my superiors arrive they will be thoroughly impressed with my progress, so much so that my merits and rewards will be higher than any of my peers'." Tony leaned forward, oblong eyes flashing. "And what better centerpiece could I have than you? Your power as a nation intrigues us and I'm sure any scientist would pay a high price to study you, even those from other more violent alien races. But you will be kept by my people, of that I am certain. As for your friends, well, the possibilities are endless. Spread throughout the universe to be poked and prodded at, injected and opened up, bred and sold—and your voice will be nothing, because you have allowed it to become so small. The same could be said for your citizens." Tony sat back in his chair and regarded him arrogantly. "By myself I have already broken your meager world. Just imagine the changes my government will bring. Ah, truly a masterpiece I look forward to seeing painted. All thanks to you and your fellow nations' negligence. A world built by civilization and a world destroyed by civilization. How fitting. You should be proud."

Everything in Alfred snapped then, and he couldn't keep himself from running at Tony, hands outstretched and determined to wring his skinny gray neck. "I _trusted_ you, fucking sonofabitch!"

Tony merely sighed and blinked once, languidly, and the next thing Alfred knew he was knocked onto his back, his head snapping painfully off the floor. He held his head and made to get back up. "Ah! _Fucking—_ "

Tony shook his head. "That would not be advisable, Alfred."

Alfred ignored him and the arm pushing himself to his feet was twisted to the point that he could feel his bones straining to hold themselves together. He gave an agonized wail. _"A-ah, fuckingfucker!"_

Tony chuckled a bit and released him, allowing Alfred to drop back to the floor, cradling his arm and gasping for breath. "I told you once, Alfred, when will you ever learn? But, oh, I forgot, it does take some time to get anything through your thick skull, perhaps about… six decades?"

Alfred glared with enough force to melt iron. "Go to hell."

Tony scoffed. "Another obscure human belief. Amazing, really, that everyone else in the universe knows that there are no such things as souls, which speaks of how primitive you are. When one dies, it is truly the end. But you won't believe that, will you? Because you are so afraid of the inevitable? You are looking your future in the eyes." The hand extended once more, fingers caressing the switch as it had before. Alfred's eyes followed it and remained fixed, gut roiling ominously. "One flip of this, and I will summon my people. Everything you know about yourself and your world—or rather, what's left of it—will be gone. And you'll have no one but yourself to blame, even as you see your brother's organs harvested for study—"

Alfred shouted defiantly and flung himself at Tony, but he didn't get far. Within moments he was thrown against a wall, limbs stretched and pinned, immobile. Tony's chair creaked as he turned to regard him, fingers still looming over that switch.

"Look at you," Tony mocked, mentally pulling Alfred's head from the wall and dashing his skull back against it. Alfred gritted his teeth, stars erupting behind his eyes. His earpiece flew off and smashed on the floor, his only lifeline. "You're so weak now that I've taken everything from you." He continued his abuse, pounding Alfred's head consistently against the concrete of the wall until he began to bleed and cry out. "The great America is no more, helpless at my feet. How does it feel to know that you caused all of their deaths, every single one? And all because you couldn't look past your own image,"— _smash_ —"of,"— _smash_ —"perfection!"— _smash_. Tony composed himself and let Alfred go, watching his body slither to the floor, facedown and gasping in his torment. Alfred wasn't allowed any time to rest; Tony had him sitting back up again, pinned against the wall, head bleeding and vision blackening. "Pathetic," Tony spat. "I'll make you realize that. I'll—" The alien paused, eyes flickering across the room. Alfred was too dazed to notice, just trying to keep himself conscious.

A look of wicked glee crossed Tony's features; something Alfred wished he had noticed in all the times he had spent with him. "Ah. I think we have company."

Alfred swallowed, following the alien's gaze until he was met with a red-tinted form manifesting out of the shadows. Everything in him tightened and his heart felt like it would explode.

Tony chuckled. "We meet again, limey bastard."

Alfred could cry. " _No_."

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: So, I _wanted_ to post this last night, but FF was not letting me upload. Well, here ya go, an early post. Again, expect them to come out slowly. My relatives are visiting and I have to mingle. Bleh.

*sheepish smile* Well, it had to be Tony. I said I didn't want to follow along the lines of Hetaoni, but I love my sci-fi, so... Tony it was. That and I didn't want to implicate any one nation. That seems unfair. And if I created something obscure, well... there was no going back once Italy started hearing the voices. If you can make out by now what "The stars will fall" and "bloody head" mean, good on you, if not... I'll clarify later. As for the password Red typed in: 07, 08, 47, Ros, NM basically translates to July 8, 1947, Roswell, New Mexico, which is the date and location of Tony's landing on Earth. Basically, Tony is kinda throwing it in Red's face that she sent America into his grasp and there's really nothing she can do about it now.

It is confirmed: the source of it all is a potential alien takeover! Although most of the destruction can be attributed to how shitty society was beforehand. You wondered where England ended up? No place good. All I can say is expect more torture. Tony's sadism will certainly be depicted. Btw, that little memory with England and America was about America's civil war. Just thought I should verify in case there's any confusion.

Next chapter will begin the second half of the POVs... which means you get to know the fate of Russia and... France! You think I would return to England and the whole situation in the Core so fast? Pshh, that doesn't build any suspense! All of the countries will have their chapters and _then_ I'll combine America's, England's, and... someone else's all into one for the finale. Shit starts _NOW._ _  
_


	117. Humanity

**Head, shoulders, knees, and... oh.  
**

Warning: Violence, fight scene, gore, threats, mental torture, references to RusAme, mention of rape, some offensive slurs.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

_"I can see the sun, but even if I cannot see the sun, I know that it exists. And to know that the sun is there—that is living."_

—Fyodor Dostoyevsky

  
**Humanity**   


All he could smell was smoke and burning flesh.

Ivan's head was pounding, his brain swelling in his skull, his bones aching without even moving, his skin rubbed raw. His hands were woven together behind his head, and when he tried to move them he practically had to rip them apart, the skin stuck together. He lifted his heavy head and brought his hands to his face, staring. The skin on the backs of his hands was burned off, revealing the pink, vulnerable lower layer beneath. His knuckles were bare, the white of bone capping each little bump like snow on mountain peaks. The bone was encircled by a ring of red flesh, around which was a crust of black. Ivan stared, stared at a pair of hands that weren't his, couldn't be, and then he remembered where he was.

He managed to push himself onto his elbows, feeling oddly light and numb. His eyes scanned the barren land before him, the earth scorched and the snow, beaten back by the explosion, black with soot and ash. He could hear combat, but he couldn't see it; he was alone, completely alone, save for a couple stray bodies thrown flat against the ground a few yards ahead of him. One had been hit by a scrap of Abram, his head crushed like a walnut. The other appeared to have broken his neck. His face was trained on his comrade, as if he had turned to witness the horror of his death and had stumbled and snapped the delicate vertebrae in his neck. The men Ivan had been trying to save.

A few minutes passed before Ivan regained enough energy to lift himself up and roll onto his back. His eyes locked on the tank, a withered shell of melted metal and leaking, smoking oil—a black husk that could very well have been his coffin. The planes were gone as was the threat of shells. The sky was gray, and the sparse flakes of snow that fluttered to the ground were swallowed up by the destruction. Pure white devoured by sinister black.

And then Ivan's eyes trailed lower, down his torso, splattered with earth turned to slush by the heat, down his thighs, the material of his pants having been eaten away by fire, a few threads still marked with its smoking signature. When Ivan's eyes ventured lower, he blinked, not understanding what he was seeing.

One of his legs had been hiked up when the explosion had thrown him to the ground, but the other had been stretched out, left behind in his haste. And for that reason, his bloodied right knee was now stretching to meet his shin. Ivan blinked again. Surely his shin couldn't bend that way, couldn't jut out to the side like it wasn't attached? There was blood between his knee and his shin, bits of tendon and muscle stretched out like grappling hooks that had failed to do their job. Then reality slowly came to Ivan, the gentle tide rising in his mind. His lower right leg was absurdly positioned, black and melting, bubbling from mid-shin down. The skin had been stripped away to reveal the ripe red flesh beneath, the brightness of bone. Ivan's leg had been blown off by the explosion, and the fire had ensured that he would never get it back.

Ivan stared as he had before, feeling strangely calm. Everything seemed so surreal, so fake. This kind of thing only happened in movies. It happened to other people. It could never happen to him. He took a deep breath and resignation filled him. It was almost like he knew what was going to happen, like he was _expecting_ this. He felt more grounded than he had since everything began, and while one part of him was screaming for him to lose it another was wrapping him in a warm blanket of security, shielding him from the shock that would surely paralyze him when he finally came to.

Hours seemed to pass, sanity feeding him its oversweet mix of acceptance and detachment. And then everything shattered, the shield gone, and reality a pile of cinder blocks crushing his entire body. He couldn't feel pain, though he knew he rightfully should, and instead of offering relief his numbness made him worry. He knew it was shock, but was he dying? How much blood had he lost? Every nerve in him was shot to the extent that he wouldn't know when or if he might end up like one of those men lying crumpled and broken ahead of him, one's neck broken, the other's head crushed like a walnut.

In a way, he longed to feel pain. Anything to remind him that he was alive, to convince the adrenaline slowly building within him to burst the gates and flood his system. Panic was slowly setting in, tortuously building until Ivan was near hyperventilating. He had never felt like this before, had never been in such a situation. No longer was he a country that could just regenerate limbs, die and come back to life days later at the most. He was human, dispensable and made of glass. One little tap and it could all be over, and there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

 _No, no,_ he thought, the words repeating like a mantra over and over again in his pounding head. _No, no, no._ A piece of him was missing, and he swore over the numbness that he could still feel his toes. But how could he when half of his leg was lying feet from him, skin melting or turning to ash? So easily the Organization had bested him, had taken something away, just like they had taken before. He had loved his sisters despite their faults. He had loved his country despite its troubles. The Overlord had taken everything, _everything_ , and now he sought to dismember Ivan piece by piece until there was nothing left.

But Ivan wouldn't let him.

He had managed to put his foot—his only remaining one—flat against the ground, crook it, bring the knee close to his body. The heels of his palms dug into the mushy ground, not knowing how exactly he would move or where he would move to but prepared to go nonetheless. Then something slashed through his head, window curtains snatched aside to reveal a burning shaft of light. In his mental absence, his mind had sought consciousness in someone else.

_"Mon dieu, mon dieu, il est mort, mort—oh, je suis désolé, mon ami. Je suis si faible que je ne pouvais pas vous sauver. Todd est mort… il est mort et ils viennent."_

Ivan's mind was fuzzy, but he understood just enough of Francis's frantic thoughts to know that he and everyone in the tunnels were in trouble. He reached out with the one sliver of his conscious not wracked with pulsing pain.

_Francis, you must calm down._

A pause. _"Ivan? How—"_

 _Never mind that,_ Ivan snapped. _Todd is dead?_

 _" Yes. "_ Francis's voice was heavy with guilt. _"Not all the defenses are decommissioned and I do not have the code. What do I do?"_ His last words were whispered, like a child lost in the dark.

Ivan was just as much that child as Francis, but he gave him his answer anyway. _I… I have the code._

_"You do?"_

Ivan cringed at the lie. But he knew he could do it, knew that he could probe the mind of anyone, go through their memories, find what was needed. All he needed right then was someone from which to steal the secrets. He was silent for a moment, regretting what he had said, and then he saw a figure approaching the blackened pit that was Ivan's depleted world. It was a soldier, dressed in all black just like the others, but he could tell by the way he walked that he was different. At first he thought that this could be one of his own men, come back to get him. But he was too hopeful, as he almost always was with everything in his life, his mind brushing that of the indecipherable soldier, flinching as he encountered something of a mental electric fence, shocking him back into himself and making his head feel twice its normal size.

Ivan just stared, not knowing what to do, how to respond to Francis, could hear the man's impatient questions bombarding the back of his mind. The soldier appeared to have been headed past him, but then the figure stopped, head swiveling, and Ivan could feel those unforgiving eyes on him, like the Overlord himself was staring him down. And then he saw the man reach for the weapon at his hip and pull it free, so cocky that he hadn't even bothered to reload, changing magazines in casual, unhurried fashion. Ivan never blinked, not wanting to miss a second of living, even if right then part of him, mostly physical, was longing to die. His mind was empty when the man cocked his gun, the sound slicing through his ear, knifelike. He raised the weapon. Took aim. Fired.

Ivan gave a cry, startled at the sound of his own voice, made hoarse from having breathed so much burning smoke. Fresh pain bloomed in his shoulder, close to his collarbone, the bullet carving a burning path through his flesh and making the hollow of a shoulder blade its home. The muscles that had strained so much to hold him up gave out and he was on his back, his head sinking into the swampy mess of mud beneath him. He could hear the man coming and closed his eyes, waiting, planning. In the minute it took for the soldier to arrive Ivan indulged his guilt, berating himself for not having thought of anyone before he was shot, not even Alfred. And he vowed to make up for it.

A bloody boot squelched in the mud beside his ear, and Ivan mustered everything in him to flip his sore body over, hand shooting out and bare-boned fingers wrapping around an ankle like a manacle. In the brief moment that the man stiffened and grunted with surprise, Ivan was able to wriggle through that electric barrier, the power having been abruptly shut off, flipping through memories, honing in, snatching what he wanted. He had barely fled before the wall was up and working again, the punishing jolts licking at his heels. Then he reached out to Francis, even as the soldier lifted his foot, intending to crush his nose into his skull.

_Francis, the password is… is…_

The foot stilled, hovered, muscles bunching as Ivan lost his breath.

 _"What is it, ami? What is it?"_ Francis asked frantically.

Ivan's heart jumped into his throat like it never had before. _It's… 'He will die.'_

_"… What?"_

_'He will die',_ Ivan snapped, angry that he had to say it again, had to feel his heart lurch painfully. Who was 'he'? Ivan kept asking himself that, but deep down he knew what the message meant. Because it _was_ a message. And Ivan realized, amid Francis asking him if he was sure, if he had heard right, and the boot coming down on his face, that the Overlord knew and Alfred was right where the bastard wanted him.

"Well, well, lookie here." Ivan was busy holding his broken, bleeding nose, cringing and squeezing his eyes shut when he felt the delicate bones jar against each other. When he opened them he was met with cold, dark eyes that were staring right through him as if the man had known him for his entire life. "A bleeding Russian cripple. But, then again, you like the color red, don't you?"

Ivan stared, searching his mind and trying to match a name with a face. Although he found nothing of the sort, there was something about the leering man before him, with his messy salt-and-pepper hair, patchy stubble, and steely eyes that made him stand out in Ivan's memory. And another thing…

How did this man know he was Russian?

The stranger read Ivan's question in his searching eyes. "Ah, we haven't been introduced. But I'm sure you remember the way Alfred wailed for his daughter, how broken he appeared even after he beat one of my men to death." Ivan continued to stare, all of it coming back to him now, and he knew this man, he _knew_ him, but damn if he couldn't recall a name!

The soldier didn't give him time to ponder; a heel pressed on Ivan's chest, the mud sucking the Russian's torso into the ground. Ivan didn't like the way the man peered down at him like he was a bothersome insect that he sought to punish by relieving him of his wings and appendages. "You remember how he cried, don't you? Then the fucking fag went and puked like the pussy he is. Getting rid of him will feel just as satisfying as getting rid of that bitch in Montana, even if I don't do it myself."

Ivan blinked and then the name hit him. _Gordon. This man must be Gordon._ Ivan had never seen the man himself, but this was the man who had killed Marge and made Alfred hurt. He tried to keep stony-faced, but he knew his rage was pooling into his eyes from the smug grin that was pulling at Gordon's lips.

"Yeah, see, there ya go. I may never have seen you, but I know who you are. The Overlord knows all and he's shared some information with me. You know what that was?" Gordon shoved his hands arrogantly into his pockets and bent over Ivan, throwing a shadow across the Russian's body that felt colder than the icy mud he was trapped in. "When your pussy boyfriend was crying, what were you doing? You just stood there and watched. You watched him break without any sort of empathetic gesture whatsoever. Ya see, you and I have something in common. We're both cold. We'll always be cold. When I shot Marge and killed her, it gave me a rush to know that I could make someone else turn so suddenly into the monster they never thought they could be. I have the power to _change_ people, Ivan, and you do too."

Ivan's muscles began to tense, wanting to snatch Gordon down and beat him just like Alfred had beat Higgins, give him a taste of his own medicine. "Do not call me that."

Gordon ignored him and continued, "That time you were standing apart from Alfred and watching him cry and turn into a monster—you liked that, didn't you? Alfred vowed to kill you not once but several times in the past, just wipe you off the face of the earth without a care in the world. At that moment in the woods in Montana you felt validated, empowered, watching someone so arrogant and self-assured crumble into a thousand little pieces, give in to an animalistic urge he thought he had control of, break his own unrealistic ideals."

Ivan, for one of the few times in his life, felt sick, not only because he hated what Gordon had said but because he recognized a note of truth in it. He truly hadn't done anything. He had been a spectator. And having such a truth thrown back in his face by someone so despicable for reasons of convincing Ivan that he too was just as despicable was something the Russian simply could not allow. Ivan meant to tell him off with some witty comeback, but all that came out was a withered excuse, "I was in shock."

Gordon barked with laughter, raspy voice wheezing like some three-pack-a-day smoker. "Centuries of unrest, and one becomes numb to shock. You're lying to yourself, Ivan. We both know it. Just admit that we share a common fancy: we love to watch people suffer, especially those who are against us." His smile stretched grotesquely wider, almost inhuman in its malformation. "If you're worrying about your little fuck buddy, don't. The Overlord sent me to fetch you so you can both see each other, though really it'll only be Alfred seeing you. I need my fix, ya see? That's why I'm gonna kill you and bind you in your own innards, maybe scoop out your eyes and make Alfred eat them. And all the while he'll be breaking and crying like you two actually had something that was more than just screwing, like you were anymore than just someone like me. I'll watch him shatter, but I won't let him pick the pieces back up. The little fag will stay good and broken, never a smile to cross his face, and he will live a long and terrible life of agony and despair. And all because you wanted to see him change, wanted to see if you could make him like you. Because you wanted that control, didn't you?"

Ivan's mind was spinning at the accusations he knew he should be rejecting but was too flustered to do so. He had never felt so unsteady, even with everything that had happened in his life, because at a time when he had _thought_ that he had finally managed to snag a chance at being happy, when he had been _surer_ than anything, it was all falling apart with just a few venomous words. All he could do was stare, blood rushing through his temples and putting pressure on his eyes, prompting an image of Alfred sobbing as he was force-fed the remains of someone he had denied loving for longer than Ivan had expected. "Exciting, isn't it? Imagining?" Gordon's voice invaded Ivan's thoughts like a snake in a garden. "The rush—oh, the rush I'll get. Shame you won't be there to witness it. And maybe you weren't wrong in screwing him." Ivan's ribs ached from the harsh pounding of his heart, faster, faster, perpetuated by Gordon's returning leer. "Maybe I'll bang 'im next to your dead body, so he can see how hopeless it really is. He'll be so broken by then, I bet he won't even make a sound, just get down and take it like the good little bitch he's gonna be for as long as the Overlord wants his sorry ass alive." His steely eyes flashed with a look that told Ivan he was seeking common ground with him. "You'd like that, wouldn't you?"

Ivan didn't know how it happened, but suddenly Gordon was beneath him, Ivan crushing him with his weight and shoving fistfuls of ice-cold ash and mud into the man's mouth. "You like rush, da?" he was growling as Gordon fought to turn away, to lock his jaws up. But Ivan dug his elbow into Gordon's collarbone, snatched him up by his stringy hair, breaking teeth as he stuffed in glob after glob of sludge. "Take it! Take it! You like, da? Is your heart pounding yet? Are you having rush? Swallow your own poison and feel it for yourself!"

The Russian was numb with rage, not hearing, seeing, _feeling_ anything outside his desire to rip Gordon to shreds. That's why he didn't notice Gordon wriggling around beneath him, getting his hands loose enough to punch Ivan on the side of his head, sending the Russian's vision bursting. Paralyzed only for a second, Ivan came to beneath Gordon, confused as to why he could barely breathe until he felt cold hands squeezing his windpipe.

"You're in denial," Gordon spat, fingers digging into his throat like iron braces. The man had strangled many a time before, that much was certain. A vicious squeeze and Ivan's vision exploded with black spots. Mud splattered onto Ivan's face as the man spoke, flicks of it flying from Gordon's mouth. "Look at you, wanting to make me break. Wanting to _see_ me suffer just as I described Alfred suffering when you're gone. You're gonna be gone when he suffers, so you wanna make up for it by seeing me like that. You wanna at least get something outta my description. You wanna see it, even if making me suffer doesn't give the same rush as making Alfred suffer."

Ivan felt himself burning from the inside out even as his head felt like it was ready to explode and his chest felt caved in from lack of oxygen. His eyes were swelling in their sockets, threatening to escape, and he could feel the blood vessels in his neck close to bursting beneath the force of Gordon's fingers.

Even so, Ivan managed to hook his stub around Gordon's waist, the man becoming startled at the feel of it and giving Ivan just enough time to roll them over and subdue him. Before Gordon's sadistic eyes could lock with his own, Ivan dug his thumbs into them, pushing, pushing.

 _I'll scoop out your eyes,_ Ivan thought, too angry to speak, muddy nails scraping at the gelatinous spheres. _And then you will be eating more than just mud._

And Gordon _screamed._ It was animalistic, it was terrifying, it was bloodcurdling. The man clawed desperately at Ivan's burned back, finding bits of peeling flesh and burying his nails in, tearing bloody gashes, but still Ivan grit his teeth and pushed. It was only when Ivan was seized with an overwhelming sense of satisfaction that his roiling stomach forced him to stop. He extracted his thumbs and his mouth began to water in the beginnings of a retch, bile soon following as he examined his thumbs, bits of blood and whitish goo smeared on them up to the first joint. Gordon's eyes had been massacred, were now hollow cups of blood and white fluid and mud. Ivan thought he saw a dark portion of pupil dribbling down the side of the man's filthy face.

And just like that, Ivan realized all too late that he had submitted to Gordon's desires. He had made Gordon suffer, just like the man had said Ivan wanted to. Now Gordon lay, a writhing heap in the sucking mud, hands going to his face as Ivan rolled off of him, the blind man's body returning to its earliest state, curled and withdrawn, like an egg. Ivan raised himself to a seated position next to him, watching Gordon whimper and rock himself back and forth, fingers feeling the remnants of his eyes as they trickled down his face. When he tasted some on his lips, he began to cry. No tears came.

"You got what you deserved," Ivan told him, but he knew his words were hollow and he knew Gordon would pick up on that. Ivan had given into temptation despite his certainty that he had gotten over the habit. He had gone too far, as always, pushed too much. And now the only way to make everything stop, to make the feeling of failure go away, was to get rid of the source.

Ivan went off silently, elbows squelching as he dragged himself through the mud on his belly, searching for Gordon's dropped gun, the fire having melted his own down, but he didn't have to look for long. Behind him he heard Gordon move and he turned around to see the man brandishing another weapon, his Organization-issued glock versus the semi-automatic that so kindly had planted its share of lead in Ivan's shoulder, which was throbbing dully in the wake of Ivan's adrenaline rush. There was no point in looking for the other gun; he was sure the ashy mud had swallowed it whole. But what Ivan wasn't sure about was how Gordon was aiming directly at him, his eyes no more than smears of white on his cheeks.

"I made the Overlord a promise," Gordon said firmly, though his hands were trembling. "I'd kill you and bring your sorry ass back to him for Alfred to enjoy. And I'm _not_ gonna break it."

Ivan didn't know what to do. It seemed that every time he so much as flinched in one direction, Gordon's aim would shift to accommodate. Ivan wondered how and then he recalled that electrifying mental wall.

 _The Overlord's power._ And then he thought in morbid, almost manic amusement, _He can make blind men see._

"Go on, try to get away, try to take it from me," Gordon spat. "C'mon you cripple. Die nobly like all your other friends. Now's the time. You can't escape my bullet."

Ivan was frozen, unsure of how to handle this situation. The Overlord's power was something he had never felt before, not consisting entirely of magic, but something darker and unearthly. There was no way he could break through Gordon's mind, not unless he wanted to slip into the void, be alone forever and ever. Then he thought of Alfred, remembered that time Jeanne had him held at gunpoint, how he himself was held at gunpoint, all of them had been, how he had inched the gun out of Nathan's hand.

Within moments, Gordon was scrambling to catch his glock, Ivan having mentally yanked it from his grasp. He gave a triumphant, "Ha!" when he'd managed to catch it, but by then Ivan was looming over him, coming down on him, hands going to Gordon's arms, to the gun. But the Overlord's eyes shone through the man's empty sockets, arms flailing, keeping the gun out of Ivan's reach even as one hand dealt the Russian a nasty blow to the jaw, sending pain flaring through his bones and up to his broken nose, clogged with dried blood.

And Gordon was laughing. Hysterically. If he'd still had eyes, he could have been crying with glee. "Do it! Do it!" he dared, bringing the butt of the glock down against Ivan's temple and giving the man enough of a shock to wriggle further from Ivan's grasp. "You know you want to! Strangle me! Stab me! Beat me! Rip me limb from limb! Be what you really are and you will be useful to the Overlord. We need more violent men like you, men not afraid to be monsters in the name of humanity!"

Ivan's head pulsed and his whole body was sore, but anger still coiled in his gut, fingers finally finding Gordon's wrist, wrapping around. "Our humanity is what separates us from the beasts. And you, тщеславный ублюдок, are a beast of the worst kind."

Ivan snatched the glock from Gordon's hand, and he could imagine the light dying in the man's nonexistent eyes. He could feel the Overlord's power retreating from him, knowing that Gordon was not worthy of his help, having been defeated, having broken his promise. And as Ivan brought the gun down on Gordon's head, the Russian at least at the satisfaction of knowing that Gordon was now alone and would die alone, and that Ivan wouldn't ever die alone because someone loved him, whether that person be alive or dead, and that was more than a beast like Gordon could ever hope to have. Because love was something _human_.

The death was fast and brutal. He forewent a bullet and pistol-whipped Gordon until his skull became concave and blood replaced eye fluid on his cheeks. Then Ivan dropped the glock and let go, letting the mud swallow Gordon's lifeless body in place of what could have possibly been his own.

Ivan could still hear Francis milling around in the back of his mind, but the Frenchman was too preoccupied to send him many coherent thoughts. Ivan decided to send his mind out to Alfred, wherever he was, just to check. It took a while, and when he finally came into contact all he felt was pain, immense pain and almost blinding despair and anger. Alfred was in danger, and where was Ivan?

Sitting back and watching. Just like he had back in those woods in Montana.

Ivan forgot his mission. The world hadn't been like this for more than a couple of years, but he hadn't had Alfred return his affections for centuries until now. He needed to balance the scales, and to do that he needed to run to him. Run to him and do all he hadn't done when he should have.

He lifted one leg, boot sinking into the ground and then the other. Pain shooting up his thigh, burning through his whole body, reminding him that he _couldn't_ run, he _couldn't_ do anything. The frustration was almost more overwhelming than his incapacitation, every nerve on fire as he let out a scream that sounded so agonized and foreign he was stunned he could produce it. His vision began to go, and he realized he didn't have much time, fingers digging into the mud, pulling himself along toward the ruins of the buildings in the distance, where everyone was expecting him and where Alfred could be dying.

In the end, he had barely gotten a few feet from Gordon's corpse before he seized up, muscles too shaken by pain to lend so much energy to movement. And so Ivan was on his belly in the mud again, not far from where he'd begun, the frustration of helplessness unbearable. He was aware of Francis tittering in the back of his mind, still connected, draining his energy further, but Ivan was too weak to pull back. He heard Francis address him, heard his voice rise in pitch with the silence he was met with, and he also heard a helicopter droning past, heard the vehicle spin frantically off course before colliding with some building in the distance at his back. Pain took his consciousness before he could hear the building collapse in a heap of dust and rubble and dying screams.

* * *

Translations:  


Mon dieu, mon dieu, il est mort, mort—oh, je suis désolé, mon ami. Je suis si faible que je ne pouvais pas vous sauver. Todd est mort… il est mort et ils viennent-My God, my God, he's dead, dead-oh, I'm sorry, my friend. I'm so weak that I couldn't save you. Todd is dead... he is dead and they are coming.

тщеславный ублюдок-conceited bastard

A Word From the Writer: Okay, so I know I'm a little late, but I'm pressed for time. Like _really_ pressed for time. Anyway, Gordon reappears! Just a bunch of people you'd never wanna meet, a whole parade! It got a bit violent, but Gordon's a bastard so... he had to die like that. Again, another fainting spell, but what else do you expect? The man just lost a leg! And seeing as I left you with a bit of a cliffhanger considering if Russia's gonna make it or not, you'll find out if he lives through other POVs... and that helicopter. You'll find out about that later as well.

Well, it's late and I'm signing off. Got a lot of shit to do still this weekend and prom ate a big chunk of that away, so expect more delays. As I said earlier _I will finish this._ Eventually. Not-weekend, here I come!


	118. Promises

**Sadness. Sadness everywhere.  
**

Warning: Violence, weapons, gore, disturbing/graphic scenes/events, references to FrUK, possible character deaths.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

_"It is not tolerable, it is not possible, that from so much death, so much sacrifice and ruin, so much heroism, a greater and better humanity shall not emerge."_

—Charles de Gaulle

**Promises**

Francis stared at Todd's body, sprawled over the control board, eyes following a finger of blood as it extended down the man's back.

 _No,_ Francis thought, mind frantically buzzing. He was deaf to the pounding on the large double doors at his back, numb to the pain flaring from the bullet embedded in his shoulder. _No, no, no._ His gaze traveled up to the large screen that spanned the entire wall, heart lurching with every explosion icon that flashed among the 3D reproduction of passageways beneath his feet. Onscreen he saw a defense go off, mere seconds later feeling the ground rock with its resonating roar. He stared and tried to recreate the map Red had pointed to in his mind, tried to place her finger where she had said Matthew would be, Arthur. But he was too frazzled to keep his thoughts in order and someone was tapping him, calling to him.

"Sir, sir," a Resister was saying, and Francis finally snapped to. Francis saw Todd's injuries once again, was suddenly hit with the weight of reality, of what he had facilitated.

Todd was dead and the defenses would kill without his expertise. Francis had failed.

 _My God, my God, he's dead, dead—oh, I'm sorry, my friend. I am so weak I couldn't save you,_ Francis wanted to shout. He had one responsibility and now he might as well be the one detonating the defenses himself, killing his companions. He had dug their graves and now he would bury them in dust and rubble. _Todd is dead and they're coming._

"Please, sir," the Resister begged and Francis turned to him. He was so young, barely out of his teens. Still a child. Francis had led children to war and had trapped them. His stomach churned. "What do we do?"

"We do what we have to," Francis told him after a deep breath and promptly marched over to Todd's seat, wrenched him out of it, tried not to be sick at the sound the man's body made when it hit the floor. He had to make up for it. He didn't know the password nor was he affiliated with this kind of work, but he needed to take over when no one else could. Because he didn't want to stand over the graves of those he held dear, knowing that he had been the one who had held the shovel.

Francis's fingers were stretched over the control board, itching to do something but not knowing how. And then he paused, feeling something move in the back of his mind.

 _"Francis,"_ someone said, _"you must calm down."_

Francis was stunned. Earlier he had heard static erupt almost blindingly through his earpiece while fighting flying glass projectiles and burning white light before gaining entry into HQ, had thought it had been an echo of Ivan's death. Surely the man's earpiece should have been destroyed, surely he should be nothing more than smoke and ash?

Or Francis could just be suffering from a cruel hallucination.

_Ivan? How—_

_"Never mind that. Todd is dead?"_

Francis realized that he could very well be answering himself, but he didn't care. Hearing a voice he knew, especially one he hadn't managed to silence with his blundering, served well to focus him. _Yes. Not all the defenses are decommissioned and I do not have the code._ Francis struggled to keep his voice firm and confident, like the leader he was supposed to be. But in the end he cracked, just like he had all those times before. _What do I do?_

He was even more ashamed that, even after a scrape with death, Ivan was still directing, still in control. _"I… I have the code."_ He was even more prepared. Francis was useless, but he was there, leaning over the control board, fingers trembling but eager. He could fix this if he wasn't already too late.

_You do?_

Francis's heart was pounding now, listening only for Ivan's voice. Those struggling to hold the door and the gunshots resounding on the other side barely reached him. Nothing else mattered outside of saving everyone he'd promised to protect, not even his own life. As long as he stopped all of the defenses, then death would be no great challenge. The longer he waited for Ivan's response, the harder and more painful his heartbeat became, the more he thought he might deserve it, to die, for being unable to complete the one task he was assigned. The longer he waited, the more images came to him of crushed bodies, burned flesh, hands peeking out from rubble, dead, empty eyes that were lifeless but which held such accusation. _Why, why?_ they asked. _I thought you would save me, I thought you loved me. Why did you let me die?_

Seconds passed, then minutes, minutes seemed to turn to hours. And all the while Francis stood hunched over the control board, waiting, waiting. He bit down on his lip, peeling back layers of skin until blood dripped down his chin, onto his hand.

 _What is it?_ Francis sent out frantically. _What is it?_ What _, goddammit? Tell me!_

The images kept coming no matter how hard he tried to keep collected. Tears welled in his eyes, making the starburst icons onscreen swell in proportion in Francis's blurred vision. Then all of his confidence left him again with the deafening sound of a blast and splintering wood.

Francis turned but was met with clouds of thick, choking smoke. He could see figures moving through the shifting billows, saw less with every roll of smoke. Gunshots lit up the hazy room, echoing along with screams, shouts, gags, coughs, until everything just… stopped. Dust and flecks of soot got into his eyes, soaking up his tears even as they caused more to flow. Francis bent double, coughing and scrubbing at his eyes, not knowing he was in trouble until he saw a boot swinging toward him. The force of the explosion had melted the muscles in Francis's legs, and he couldn't move before he was caught in the gut. He was sent onto his back, sprawled in debris and shards of wood. He'd landed on his injured shoulder, crying out when pain spiked up his arm. He was paralyzed for a moment, unable to do anything more than hold his shoulder and gasp, and then a form was manifesting out of the smoke, leaning over him. The man had a weapon in his hand, aiming it straight at him, but his eyes were what scared Francis most of all.

Dark, blank, unfeeling. The eyes of the corpse Francis might become.

It made Francis all the more frightened when the thought crossed his mind that perhaps putting an end to it all would be what was best. And then Ivan's voice was back, splitting through his mind like a flash of lightning illuminating the roiling gray.

_"Francis, the password is… is…"_

And suddenly Francis saw an opportunity. He forgot his pain and he rolled to his knees, getting his feet under him. The soldier before him shot once, missed, allowing Francis the time to wrap his arms around his legs and pull him off his feet. The gun went off as the man went down, bullets disappearing into swirls of smoke and floating ash until one found Francis's upper chest. Francis bit his lip and howled as lead burned through him, shattering bone and tearing muscle. But his arms still held tight, determined even as the man continued to empty his clip into the open air. Adrenaline turned his blood to boiling and the pressure he would have felt in his chest was gone in a matter of minutes.

 _What is it, ami? What is it?_ Francis urged, hands busy trying to subdue the soldier he had managed to drag to the floor while his mind was far away. Francis crawled over to the soldier, hand groping for the knife at his side. He was so distracted that he got a jarring kick to the jaw that made stars burst behind his eyes. He gave up on his knife, instead seeking to subdue the soldier's flailing legs. The gun was nowhere in sight, having disappeared into the smoke when it had slipped from the man's hand. But that made Francis's challenge no less difficult, receiving several more kicks before managing to sit on the soldier's legs. Then came the punches.

And Ivan's voice. _"It's… 'He will die.' "_

A punch to the lip. Blood in his teeth. _… What?_ Maybe he _was_ just hallucinating. Maybe it was an omen tied to his mistake. Francis tried his best not to dwell on it, but his worry seemed to affect him even worse than the soldier's punishing blows.

But Ivan's voice returned in confirmation. _" 'He will die.' "_

Francis's resignation took flight, determination mounting within him even as one of his eyes began to swell shut from abuse. But he had to know that it was right. It was his only chance. _Are you sure, ami? Did you hear correctly?_ Ivan didn't answer, but Francis took his words for truth anyway. It was all he had.

The man was persistent, as emotionless as he was. Just a few minutes in and Francis felt like he'd rolled down a rocky slope. No matter what he did the soldier's hands were always slipping from him, and Francis was quickly losing energy, already unable to breathe properly with the amount of smoke that clogged the air. He was near collapse, and then a fist connected with his injured shoulder.

Pain awakened his instincts, pushing Francis to find any way possible to stop the hits or he just might die. Although his depth perception was compromised from his black eye, he snatched up the soldier's wrists, muscles straining to hold them. Francis _needed_ to get to the control board, but this man was making that an ever shrinking possibility with every minute that ticked by during which Francis was engaged in what was gradually becoming an unacceptable stalemate. Every time Francis adjusted, tried to shove the man's hand to the floor, his other hand escaped Francis's grip and lashed out at his face. Then Francis would have to start all over again, all the while staring into those eyes that were so black they seemed to swallow his resolve. He kept repeating the password in his mind—if it was legitimate and not just a mental fabrication— _He will die, He will die,_ and suddenly it became a mantra, something to achieve, directed at the soldier writhing so defiantly beneath him.

 _He will die._ Francis could do it. One good blow and he could escape, he could do what he needed to do, what had promised. _Maybe,_ Arthur's voice cut in, playing over the password. More push, more drive. It hadn't been a proper answer, but it was something. It was reassurance. It was hope. It was a promise that they would see each other again, because Francis couldn't die without knowing all the possibilities that word held and he wouldn't allow Arthur to die before he could expand upon it, at least not if he could help it. _Maybe_ was Francis's knuckles against the soldier's temple in a reckless blow, was the shard of wood he found as the soldier knocked him over, was the force that drove the splintered projectile into the soldier's neck as he attempted to climb on top of Francis, to subdue him. Blood arched from the wound, spilling over the floor, turning the ash black and making Francis's black uniform even blacker. The most unnerving part of it all wasn't being doused in blood. It was how silent the soldier was, apart from some expected gurgles, as if he had accepted death a long time ago. _Inhuman,_ Francis thought, because how could he be human if he didn't have the capacity to regret, to be frightened, to be angry? Those eyes conveyed nothing as he tumbled to the ashy floor, a heart that should by rights not even exist directing the blood streaming from him with rhythmic pulses. The defiance Francis thought the man to possess fostered guilt within him. This man couldn't be defiant. He couldn't be anything at all, not even human.

Francis pushed himself up from the floor, slipping in blood and soot. The smoke was still swirling around him, making his one good eye water, but he could see the long board of flashing buttons as clear as beacons. His legs moved without him feeling them, stumbling over bodies and wood, dodging isolated flickers of fire. Francis's hands groped for the board, fingers finally gripping the edge, aching from his struggle with the soldier. His rush of adrenaline was wearing off, slowly giving way to a burning pain in his shoulder and a heavy stitch in his chest. Nonetheless, Francis ran his fingers over the buttons and switches, trembling and clammy, trying to remember which ones Todd had pressed or flicked. Francis tried one, then another, striking luck when a decommission screen popped up along with a female voice that boomed, _"DEFENSES TO BE DEACTIVATED. CODE NEEDED."_

"He will die," Francis whispered, fingers working at the keypad. _Maybe,_ Francis thought. _Maybe._

The screen flashed and the 3D model of the tunnels appeared once more. All of the flashing red dots turned white. _"DEFENSES DEACTIVATED. TO REACTIVATE—"_

But Francis was already headed toward the door, his mission complete. The smoke was gone now and he could see everything clearly.

His entire squad was gone, whether burned to death or suffocated or shot. Their bodies lay strewn over the floor, covered in ash and debris, among the corpses of Organization soldiers. Only then did Francis realize what had happened. Someone had fired an RPG through the doors, now hanging on their hinges, a hole made jagged by splinters having been blasted through them. The heat of the projectile had melted the marble on the far wall, scorching the veined stone with black. Cracks extended from where the RPG had embedded itself into it, the wall dented but otherwise unharmed. Francis was careful to step over all of the damage, nearly slipping on a stray shell. He made it to the massacred entrance and peered out. No one was in the hall and, as far as he could tell, in the building. But then again Francis's ears had been shot, still ringing from the blast and feeling stuffed with layers of cotton. Not knowing what to do now that everyone around him was gone, Francis decided that he'd had enough of that oppressing room and commenced staggering to the entrance.

When cold air hit his face, blown by wind flecked with snow, Francis gulped down lungfuls of it, leaning on what was left of the door frame and willing his legs not to give out. Finally Francis gained the capacity to examine his surroundings. Buildings blackened, crumbling, windows shattered, a fresh dusting of snow failing to hide the debris, soot, and bodies. It was so unnaturally quiet that Francis knew the Organization's troops were near, watching. But the silence was so welcoming, lulling, and Francis would have been content to lean on the frame and submit to sleep if he didn't hear hysterical laughing.

 _"The Overlord's power,"_ the voice said, groping at sanity. _"He can make blind men see."_

Francis's eyes snapped open, convinced that he would see someone standing before him, mocking him. But he saw nothing, was absolutely alone, and then he gathered that no one else could have a voice like this. Not one that could endure through centuries.

"Ivan?" Francis breathed, a mist forming before his mouth. Maybe he wasn't crazy. Maybe he wasn't just hearing things. _Maybe._ "Ivan?" And before Francis knew it he was walking through the barren mess, staggering. He could feel eyes watching him, knew that soldiers were watching through the glassless windows, aiming at him, fingers on their triggers. But not one of them shot. Not one of them, even as Francis continued on, even as he began to run, the pressure in his chest and the dizziness in his head growing and growing until they just disappeared, numbed with the cold. Francis's heartbeat kept rhythm, reminded him that he still had time, he still _had time_ , to make one thing right. And the Organization soldiers let him go, knowing that he would soon die with his wounds and the chilling wind. He wasn't even worth a bullet.

The buildings peeled back, grew small behind him, and Francis was still running, still unhindered. He saw what must be the black husk of a tank come into view, passed bodies burned and smeared with blood. He saw a helicopter wheel out of control and hit the Washington Monument, but that hardly mattered. He kept running. Here and there he saw limbs, detached, the fire having eaten down to bone. Everything was black and dry, lifeless. But Francis kept running because Ivan may be alive, may be the only thing he had left of what used to be. _Maybe._

Francis slowed, looked around, was forced to pick through soot, shards of partially melted metal, scraps of displaced flesh. He turned over bodies slowly being claimed by the icy mud, examined their faces for any sign of familiarity, dropped them and searched on. Then his eyes caught a shock of fresh red blood a few feet away, hobbled over, was soon staring down into face that was a soup of blood and flesh and bone. Every inch of the dead man was covered with mud, hiding his hair, his skin. For a moment Francis stood over the corpse, his eyes blurring with tears, his throat convulsing with a cry of despair. He lifted his gaze to verify how this man could have died, this man who could very well be Ivan. He followed a bloody trail through the mud, carved by a damaged body, and saw the wind stirring strands of hair, silver beneath slimy black. Heart pounding, Francis rushed over, dropping to his knees. Shaking hands scooped the man's head out of the filth.

"Ivan?"

It was. It had to be. The more Francis wiped away the dirt, the more he resembled the Russian. His nose was broken, skewed and bloody, but it was still Ivan's nose. "Ivan," Francis muttered. Ivan's skin was pale as frost, cold beneath his fingers. But as Francis heaved him onto his back and fingers found his pulse, weak as it was, he knew he had a chance. _Maybe._

He hooked his hands beneath Ivan's armpits and dragging him through the sucking mud to the tank, almost losing his boot along the way. Francis planted himself before a charred tread, leaning on it for support as he pulled Ivan's head onto his lap. He slapped Ivan's cheeks gently, mumbling his name, pulled an eyelid up, saw only white. "Ivan, Ivan," Francis said. _Don't leave me alone, please. I've only just found you._ A sob worked its way up his throat, manifesting in a growl. Francis slapped Ivan's face with all the might he could muster. "Wake up, you cold bastard! It will take more than this to kill you. _Answer me_."

Ivan's eyelids contracted a little, lips quivering as they regained function. It took another few minutes, Francis watching with bated breath, for Ivan to crack open an eye. Violet met blue, and Francis could breathe again.

"Are you okay, ami?"

Ivan gave a wheeze meant to be a laugh. It hurt to laugh. Ivan hurt all over, and he had never been colder in his life. "I am burned, bruised… freezing to death… missing a limb. Da, I am okay."

Francis's eyes went wide, traveling down Ivan's body to where one of his legs should be. He had been so caught up in watching Ivan's face for any sign of life that he hadn't even noticed a part of him was missing. The subject of their mortality hit him harder than it ever had and he took Ivan's hands, rubbing them to warm them up. "I am sorry."

"Is not your fault," Ivan said before coughing up a glut of black phlegm. The glob slid down his chin and Ivan made no move to wipe it away. "Did you—"

"Oui," Francis replied, cleaning Ivan's face further. "You shouldn't speak."

Ivan smiled. It was such a sad smile. "What, I don't get any last words?"

"Don't talk like that," Francis told him. "You will live."

"Da, right."

Francis's eyes were still trained on Ivan's stub, saw red trickling down to swirl in the mud. "You are bleeding." Ivan didn't respond, as if ashamed at Francis pointing out his weaknesses. "You need a tourniquet." And Francis shifted him on his lap, grabbing at his own clothing.

Ivan's hand shooting up to wrap around his wrist scared the shit out of him. "Nyet. You are cold. Need all the warmth you can get." He coughed again, wet. Swallowed. "I will be fine."

"No, you won't." Francis went back to tearing his sleeve, but Ivan's grip increased, made him gasp.

"I will break your wrist," Ivan threatened. Violet slits bore into Francis's conscience.

"You would not."

"I would," Ivan told him, twisting. Francis grunted.

"Fine," Francis said and, satisfied, Ivan let go. The Frenchman rubbed his wrist for a short minute before his eyes caught a flicker of yellow a few feet away.

"Francis," Ivan said, and Francis could fill in the rest.

"I am not leaving," he promised and went back to the faceless corpse nearby, tore off a scrap of fabric, walked over to the flicker of flame, dipped it in. As he returned to Ivan, he couldn't look the man in the eyes. He didn't want to do this, but Ivan had given him no other choice. He knelt before Ivan's missing leg, burning fabric in hand. "I am sorry, ami." It was all he could say before he pressed the fire to Ivan's bleeding stub.

Ivan's scream was terrible. Francis could hardly bear to look at him, the Russian's body arching, writhing, fingers digging up fistfuls of mud. Teeth pierced into Ivan's lower lip and a trickle of blood reddened his chin. And Ivan kept screaming, the scream of a dying animal. Francis blinked away his tears and swallowed his sobs, pressing the fire to Ivan until the stub was blackened at the end. The bleeding stopped.

When Francis finished, he threw the torch as far away as he could, feeling utterly despicable no matter how much he told himself that what had done had been the right thing. He took his place at Ivan's head again, fingers stroking through the man's soiled hair. Ivan was still moaning, eyes screwed shut. Tears had made clean streaks through the dirt and blood on his face and Ivan's eyes were swimming when he opened them. He blinked up at Francis, stared, and Francis felt ashamed that he himself was crying when he wasn't the one who'd had to suffer.

"Arthur," Ivan mumbled.

Concern filled Francis, and he took Ivan's chilled hand. "Non, ami. It's—"

"Nyet." Ivan shook Francis's hand away and stared ahead, almost myopic. "Arthur. He's…" Ivan seemed to come back to himself then and paused, eyes floating up to Francis again, who had stopped breathing upon hearing Arthur's name. Ivan hesitated and Francis sensed that something was off. Ivan never hesitated.

Francis was about to ask what it was that Ivan wasn't saying when the Russian grabbed his hand. "Спасибо, Francis." He stared up at Francis and suddenly he didn't need to say anything for Francis to understand. "I am not leaving."

Five minutes later, HQ filled the sky with fire and smoke and rocked the earth with its explosion. Francis watched through wet eyes, a stitch returning to his chest that had nothing to do with the bullet inside him.

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Translations:

Спасибо-Thank you

A Word From the Writer: So this was sorta depressing, but considering the circumstances it kinda had to be. And don't be fooled by France's and Russia's closeness. Pure camaraderie, no lovey-dovey stuff here. And then everything blows up. Yay for explosions, the ultimate cop out!

So, I'm sorry I missed the post date... again. But I was doing a bunch of shit this week and trying to catch my ass. I dunno how things will turn out but I might reduce it down to one chapter a week if things get too busy. Exams are closing in and college and shit and my aunt and her two young children are coming to stay with us for a while so that means a lot of babysitting for me. I'll write when I have time but for now this fic has been pushed to the back burner, at least until after graduation in another month. As for this chapter, I would have had it up sooner if the internet hadn't distracted me like it always does. I started watching some shit on YT, then somehow got into watching Disney songs in Russian. It began with "Hellfire" and ended... somewhere. I don't remember. I was in such a daze (it had been two hours, HURR). The Tarzan tracks were the best by far. So passionate~ And the Nightmare Before Christmas ones were... let's just say the subs were very Russian and I was scared. Anyway, apart from my very short attention span there's a lot of shit going on. Just a warning.

Next are China and Japan~! Prepare for more doom and gloom, as always.


	119. Together

**Dark China, meet fluffy China.  
**

Warning: Violence, threats, gore, fight scene, weapons, inappropriate touching, reference to rape, references to NiChu.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

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_"Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage."_  
  
―Lao Tzu

**Together**

Yao sat on the floor of the helicopter. The rhythmic vibrations of the whirring blades humming through his body did nothing to calm him. He was scrunched up between the legs of one of the soldiers. The man had begun to stroke his hair, filthy fingers combing through the strands. The touches had gradually become more aggressive, but there was nothing Yao could do about it. He felt the knife against his temple just as clearly as he felt the hot mound of the man's crotch pressing between his shoulder blades.

Yao just sat there and let the man touch him, tried not to feel it. Alfred had disappeared and he had been captured. His body ached and his injuries hadn't been treated, still trickling with blood. He was dehydrated and dizzy with the movements of the helicopter, and any time weight was put on his leg, the stab wounds in his thigh and pelvis burned too much to bear and welled with more blood. The bullet in his right arm felt like a burrowed insect, gnawing at his muscle with every jostle. He was so weak that the men hadn't seen it fit to bind him. Shame filled Yao at the thought.

 _Negligent,_ Yao kept thinking, because he was. He should have seen the trap. Thousands of years of experience and he'd managed to screw everything up when it mattered most. He deserved the pain and whatever came with it.

The helicopter tilted to one side, driving Yao against the soldier's growing hardness, sought to scramble away as best he could, but he was snatched up by the arm, crying out as the lodged bullet was disturbed. He soon found that the least of his worries as he was pulled too close to the soldier, smelling smoke and sweat. The man's sour breath puffed against his face as the fingers in his hair tightened, yanking his head back.

"You're a pretty thing," he said, shifting beneath Yao. The Chinaman struggled to hover over the soldier rather than satisfy him by sitting on his hidden erection. He had accepted his defeat, but he would never go so low as to allow himself to be assaulted without some objection. But as much as he tried, a gorilla-like hand cupped his ass and brought him in. "Like a girl. I'm sure the Overlord wouldn't notice if I had some fun with you."

The other soldiers laughed. Yao's arms dangled by his side, knife now tracing the contours of his bared throat. Lips brushed over it, teeth nipping threateningly at his pulse. _Kiku_ , he thought. He would live for him, no matter what happened. He would endure, then he would find him. He turned his head and let his eyes wander over the ground below as a hand found its way down his pants.

They were flying over the Ellipse, though it took Yao some time to notice, there was so much thick smoke. There was nothing left of it, littered with scorched craters, burning fire, and bodies so black they almost blended into the destruction. The tank Ivan had been guiding was nothing more than a skeleton, and none of his force remained. The wasteland stretching before Yao continued to the horizon, plumes of gray polluting the sky and forming all that was and would be. Yao had never felt so utterly alone… nor so enraged. He balled his hands into fists.

The helicopter listed again and the man holding him was too busy biting at his neck to notice Yao's fingers groping at his side. When they found what he was looking for, he forgot his failure. He forgot everything except what could be.

He wouldn't fail again.

He pulled the knife from the soldier's belt and the man yanked his hand only halfway out of Yao's pants before the blade was shoved up beneath his ribs.

"No, he would not," Yao hissed in reply and continued to thrust the knife into him, deeper, deeper, twisting, all the while watching the light die in those cold eyes, watching blood bubble on the man's lips, felt it wash over his hand with each jerk of the blade.

There was a _pop_ that split his ears and pain suddenly bloomed in his back. Yao screamed, legs giving out and stumbling as the helicopter jerked. Another _pop_ sounded, and Yao had enough sense to turn around and drop to his knees. His heart nearly exploded when he felt a weight fall on him from behind. He wriggled out from beneath it and saw that it was the man he had stabbed, now bleeding from a bullet hole in his forehead. Yao kicked the body away before the soldier aiming his gun at him could adjust, gathering his legs under him and lunging even as his injuries set his muscles aflame.

He wrapped his arms around the soldier's legs and pulled as hard as he could. The man dropped his weapon and fell, arms flailing in a desperate attempt to catch himself. He grabbed onto the latch of the door, holding tight until metal slipped against metal, and suddenly there was a roar of wind and Yao was sliding, sliding—

 _"What the fuck?"_ the pilot yelled over the rushing air, but Yao barely heard it, swallowed by the blood pulsing through his ears. He still had hold of the soldier's legs, and the man was being sucked toward the door. Eyes wide, Yao withdrew his hands and flipped himself around, grabbing for anything he could to keep himself from flying away. He threw his arms out to the corpse that had rolled toward him, barely wrapping his fingers around the handle of the blade in the dead soldier's chest before the one behind him grabbed his ankles, pulling him halfway across the floor in one strong yank. Yao gave a cry and clawed, nails breaking and bloodied as he fought both the sucking air and the soldier's sinister grip, digging the blade that he had tugged loose of the corpse into the floor. He kicked his legs, attempting to plant his heel into the soldier's face, craning his neck to see that he was only a few feet from the door. The soldier's legs were being flung about in the wind, flimsy as if broken by the force of the whipping air. Frantic, Yao snatched the knife up from the floor and jammed the blade into one of the hands that held his ankle.

The man didn't shout or curse or beg. He didn't even blink. Yao watched in a surrealistic haze, more horrified that he felt nothing toward the man who was whipped from his sight than he was at the thought of falling victim himself. But how could he feel anything toward what was well and truly an animated corpse?

Yao clawed his way across the cabin, adrenaline providing him enough strength to propel him to the seats at the front. He seized the leg of one in a vice grip, the wind knocking his lower body two and fro while it stole the breath from his lungs. He peered up and was met with the blank face of the co-pilot and the barrel of his weapon. He saw the man's finger twitch on the trigger and he screwed his eyes shut.

At that moment the helicopter rolled to the side, the heat from the bullet scorching Yao's face even as the lead buried itself in the cushion of the pilot's seat. Yao's eyes snapped open to see the co-pilot blinking dumbly at him, as if trying to confirm whether he'd hit his target or not. Once enlightened, the co-pilot began to draw his arm back to cock his gun, but Yao was faster. In a rush of thought he hooked an elbow into the seat and flung out an arm, locking onto the co-pilot's wrist and using all his might to yank him from his seat. The man tumbled out quite easily, the gun going off over Yao's shoulder in the process. The next second Yao was kicking the man's limp form across the floor and to the open door, the handle of a knife jutting from his head.

Yao didn't get the chance to watch his body be dragged from the cockpit before yet another gunshot split the air. Dazed, Yao covered his throbbing ears, feeling something warm and thick drop onto his nose. At first he thought that he had been the one hit and wasn't feeling the impact for the shock. But he was wrong. With great delicacy, he pulled himself to the co-pilot's seat, the helicopter rocking dangerously, intent on ordering the pilot to land. But he soon found that his plan would be impossible to implement. The pilot was dead, head lolling with the erratic rhythm of the helicopter. His front teeth were missing, his lip was bloody, and gore painted the headrest from where the bullet had punched through the back of his head. His spent weapon dangled in his hand.

Yao didn't have the chance to be angry at the fact that the Overlord had decided to off one of his own men, who was unhurt and perfectly capable of functioning, merely for the purpose of vexing Yao. Instead, Yao had to put his mind toward more pressing matters—such as trying to guide the helicopter out of its current tailspin.

It was hard enough trying to recall just how to control a helicopter nonetheless keep a grip on the seat as well as his bearings, the buildings whirling by in front of him, head spinning as fast as the helicopter. Eventually, his hands found the control stick, but only eventually.

Yao saw the tower a split-second before impact.

First it was the blades, shattering against the stone with a metallic screech, one flying completely off. The wall punched through the glass, sending Yao flying off the chair and onto his back, crawling as fast as the quakes allowed him, outrunning the stone that rushed after him. All he heard was screaming metal, scraping rock. He was consumed with grabbing for purchase anywhere he could, struggling not to fly around the cabin or out of the still open door. At one point he was jammed behind a seat, upside down, arm twisted from his attempt to catch himself. His nose had been smashed sometime during his flailing, blood gushing down his throat, choking him. Something had torn at the stab wound on his thigh and one side of his head was pounding from a blow he couldn't remember receiving. And still the air rushed past, hissing, the blades whirring frantically, the cabin tilting ever further, down, down…

And then the advancing stone was gone, the horrible scraping with it. For a moment Yao thought that everything was over, that he could somehow fix the mess he had caused, but when he finally wrenched himself from his trap he saw that his hopes were far from rational.

The helicopter was listing, the blades fighting to keep the heavy cabin in the air as it sputtered away from the massacred Washington Monument and over what Yao could make out was water—a pool. Heart in his throat, Yao flung himself across the cabin, slipping in blood and on dust, shoes crunching broken glass and rubble before reaching the pilot's seat once more. But the only assurance he was given was the fact that there was no saving the helicopter. Yao stared through shards of shattered glass, his eyes stung with the force of the icy air cutting at his face, to see the ground growing closer and closer with each passing second. He had to make a decision then, one that would determine whether or not his resolve was still present or had disappeared long ago.

Yao's fingers were like iron around the headrest, but he had made his choice. There was no time for parachutes, barely any time to think. Although Yao's fear had beaten him into a state of paralysis, he managed to pry his fingers from the seat. The air did the rest.

He let himself fall, the wind carrying him out of the cabin, and then he was weightless. He couldn't breathe, he couldn't blink. Everything in him seemed to leave. He was hollow for a few moments, a few ironically peaceful moments, feeling nothing, floating. It was almost like the gray water wasn't rushing up to meet him, seeking to swallow him, ruin him.

Yao's senses had left him in his moment of panic, but if he hadn't let them go then they would have weighed him down, made him grip the seat tighter and wait for fire to engulf him rather than for water to buoy him. But the totality of his missing sense hit him hard—almost as hard as he hit the water. He couldn't identify the pool before, hadn't had the time to, but he realized as soon as concrete plowed through his bones that this was a reflecting pool and he was an idiot. It was barely over two feet deep.

Yao couldn't emit any sort of noise for a moment, the breath knocked out of him from the fall. The pain was still present, however, flaring through him until his lungs reignited. Then he let out a scream so loud and inhuman he wondered if his throat might burst along with his lower half. Everything hurt, he was aflame with agony, spending all his breath on that scream before settling into sobbing whimpers. The pain exhausted him, his muscles having been so tense for so long they finally gave out, letting the hurt wash over him as the icy water did. He could no longer keep his head up, heavy and pulsing with his ordeal, too much for him to bear. His eyes fluttered closed and the next thing he knew he was underwater, face submerged, content.

When he tried to take a breath and was met with water, worry didn't grip him. He had no desire to move. He continued to lay there, skin numb, body throbbing, water trickling into his lungs. And he was just fine with that.

_Yao smiled as Kiku cast his line into the water, just the line—much more primitive than Yao's own brass reel. Today he was going to show Kiku how to fish properly. Today he would instill his superior traditions in—_

_Yao's eyes darted to Kiku's fingers as they twitched on the line, gaping when, with one swift tug, Kiku had brought his catch to the surface and proceeded to drag the creature into the shallows._

_Yao frowned. Although he hadn't dreamed something like this was even possible (he was obviously the best fisherman in the world, it had been proven), he did have earlier catches that were in need of gutting. He grabbed a decent sized one that didn't smell too offensive and made his way to the reeds where Kiku was already standing, straddling his fish, knife in hand._

_"Now," Yao instructed as he took up a position beside Kiku and produced his own knife, setting his catch down in the water, "you will want to grip the fish firmly and watch your hands so you don't get cut. Start by scraping the scales off from tail to head. And don't forget to clean the collar! That is a very tasty par—"_

_Yao's jaw was once again left hanging open as his eyes shifted to Kiku, who was standing straight up in the water, fish, completely bare of scales and fully gutted, in one hand and his knife in the other. Kiku only stared blankly at him before stepping out of the water and returning to the bank. He spread out a mat and began to filet his catch. Yao had to gut his fish alone._

_By the time Yao was finished and had recovered somewhat from the blow to his pride, Kiku was laying his filets on the fire. He could already smell them cooking. The boy didn't even spare him a glance._

_Yao sniffed._ Impudence. I will rid him of it in time. _He then set about filleting his fish at his own pace._

_Night soon fell, and the two hunkered down in their sacks for sleep. Yao watched Kiku wriggle into his own, the boy's back to him. When all he could see was his hair, he too settled down._

_Yao woke when the stars were still out, feeling something shift against his side. He peered down to see Kiku curled against him in his own sack, the chill having drawn him close. Yao didn't touch him, knew how oddly sensitive Kiku was about that. He just watched him, watched the wind ruffle his hair, watched how the moonlight reflected off his dark eyelashes. And then Kiku's mouth was moving in speech for the first time since Yao had found him sitting alone in those woods. Since their first meeting._

_"Arigatō."_

_Yao frowned, not at all knowing what the word meant. He was still learning Kiku's language after all, whatever it was. Still, it meant something. Something much more profound than the silence he had been treated with._

_He blinked, and the small, quiet boy he once new had grown to a larger but equally quiet man. Kiku's dark eyes were open, drinking in moonlight, and Yao thought he had never seen anything quite so captivating._

_"I will always be right here beside you," Kiku echoed his earlier words, and this time Yao understood him perfectly. "Have you ever seen Kinkaku-ji? Maybe when all of this is over, we can go see it." Kiku broke into an uncharacteristic smile. It was radiant. "Together."_

Together _. The word echoed through Yao's head as he wrapped his arms around Kiku, drawing him in and burying his nose in his hair. He still smelled so sweet despite all that they had gone through._

_"I've missed you," Yao said._

_Kiku's hand found his own, weaving their fingers together. "I know, Yao-chan. I've missed you, too. And I love you."_

_"I love you, yīnghuā."_

_His mantra. His Kiku. His love._

Yao's eyes flew opened and immediately filled with the water, murky with ash. He opened his mouth, tried to breathe, but he only managed to bog down his lungs even further. _I don't want to die, I don't want to die,_ were his frantic thoughts as he fought to get his arms under him, pushing against the slimy bottom. His chest hurt, aching with the weight and chill of the water, but he would not die, he refused. Because, sometime really long ago, Kiku had asked to visit the temple with Yao, and he wouldn't let Kiku go alone, stand on the veranda and wish Yao was there beside him, at last. He couldn't leave Kiku there to mourn, couldn't have him see the temple as a reminder of death instead of what it was meant to be.

 _I will stand beside him,_ Yao thought as his nose pushed above the water. _I will hold his hand and it will be just us. I will tell him I love him again. Every day. Every day until he gets sick of it._ He surfaced and tried to gulp down air only to be met with a catch in his throat. Eyes watering, Yao held himself up with shaky arms, coughing up the fluid from his lungs. For a few heart-stopping moments he thought he may suffocate and Kiku would find his body submerged in the water, forced to drag him out and see how broken he was. But then the last bit of water came pouring from his lips, spilling into the pool along with bile from his empty stomach. He remained still as he retched, grabbing air through his nose whenever he had the chance. It wasn't until he had nothing else left to bring up that he finally took a truly deep breath.

He gasped and filled his lungs to the point his ribs ached from the pressure, over and over again. He felt light-headed and the cold water had made him numb. Black spots burst in his vision, threatening to plunge him down into the pool again, but his nails dug into the filth along the bottom, dragging himself inch by aching inch to the edge.

When at last he gathered the strength to crawl out onto the shattered concrete and dusting of snow, sopping wet and shivering, he saw his chance to rest like he hadn't been able to in what felt like a million years. But his heart was still pounding like a startled bird in his heavy chest, expecting more danger at any moment. The rest of Yao's body, however, refused to provide any sort of reaction other than complete and utter prostration.

Yao turned himself over with the last bit of energy he had left. His ears, muffled by his ordeal, caught the sound of tumbling stone and turned his head to see the Washington Monument , having suffered from the helicopter's impact, crumble into a pile of rubble and a cloud of dust. The helicopter's flames danced at the corner of Yao's vision opposite, the wreckage simmering near the end of the pool. Yao's eyes returned to the sky, heavy and hooded. All he saw was gray; a solid mass of indiscernible cloud, blocking out all sunlight. Yao knew from the way his leg throbbed that it was broken. He knew by the splintery feeling in his hip that it was shattered. Yet in spite of everything—the broken bones and the pulsing stab wounds and chilling wind—he was content, having taken one step closer to Kiku and that golden temple on the glimmering lake. He could still feel the man's delicate fingers woven with his own, could already imagine his smile.

 _Together,_ Yao thought confidently. The few flecks of snow that drifted down to him were Kiku's kisses on his cheeks. _We will go together._

"I love you, yīnghuā," he croaked with a smile of his own. His eyes felt hot and wet.

Yao lay there alone yet so very happy. His only companions were crows circling overhead. He smiled at them, too.

* * *

Translations:

 _Arigatō_ -Thank you

yīnghuā-cherry blossom (hoping this is the right word...)

A Word From the Writer: Ah, so hey. Been a while. A week. A very long and trying week. So I haven't had as much time to devote to this fic as I normally would because I am taking care of my cousins and studying for exams. My AP English was Thursday and naturally I didn't want to write shit when I got home. I was all write-ed out. One down, two more to go.

Okay, so what we have here is a drastic change in China. Last POV I wrote him all homicidal, but I felt the need to change him into a sort of reminiscing romantic. Which is too cute, I've gotta say (Japan would say kawaii). But then I kinda beat him up and whipped him around like a ragdoll to make up for all the sappy shit. So, really the endings of these leave a lot for speculation. You don't really know if they're gonna die or not, which is what I'm going for. But damn. I think I went overboard here. He should be in a coma by rights, but it wouldn't be nearly as fun.

Next is Japan!


	120. Pieces

**This is some deep shit.**

Warning: Violence, gore, fight scene, references to NiChu, references to post-war Japan, character death.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

_"Do not follow the ideas of others, but learn to listen to the voice within yourself. Your body and mind will become clear and you will realize the unity of all things."_

—Dogen

**Pieces**

Kiku forced himself to sit just below the hatch that led into the bunker. He peered up at the locks, just waiting for them turn. His katana, bloody and worn, lay across his lap. He felt their eyes on it as they passed him, going to huddle together in the furthest corner of the bunker, but he _had_ to have it out, had to be ready. Outside, he could hear explosions, some so close they shook the bunker and made the women whimper and the children cry. With every rumble Kiku's wounds echoed in pulsing aches. Surely the tunnels should be nothing by now; surely the bunker was buried beneath rubble, inaccessible, inescapable. Kiku could have led the captives from one deathtrap to another, and yet he still listened for that rhythmic tapping, for that 'Farmer in the Dell.'

A flicker of movement in the corner of his eye made him whip his head around. There Lidia stood, all four foot nine of her, bouncing her infant in her arms as she stared down at him. "I forgot to tell you. Thank you. For saving us."

"It was no trouble," Kiku said and wished that it truly had been no trouble.

"What is your name, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Kiku."

The girl shifted the child from one shoulder to another. Her blond hair was blackened with soot, burned crisp at the edges, her skin littered with smears of ash and glowing red with burns. Yet she still looked so pure. Like she didn't belong there. "Thank you, Kiku. I could never thank you enough."

 _It's too soon to thank me,_ Kiku thought, mind going back to the possibility of their being buried alive. He managed a soft smile and said, "What is her name?"

Lidia was confused for a moment and then followed Kiku's eyes to the baby. She returned the smile. "Evelyn. It was my mother's name."

Kiku's heart sank. "Your mother died?" _Not beneath the rubble. Please, not in the explosion._ He didn't want to be responsible for another death, having already lost both Danny and Matthew.

A shadow seemed to fall across Lidia's face. "Yeah, um, a while ago. I'm just… glad she didn't have to see this. And my brother, I…" Something caught in her throat and she cleared it, eyes darting downward. In her arms, Evelyn burbled.

It took only a second, and Kiku was once again thrown back, head cracking off the wall. He was made blind and deaf once again, the situation so horribly familiar it would have seemed surreal if everything in him didn't explode into pain. His head throbbed, feeling unnaturally heavy as he lifted it, vision still swimming with white. All too late he realized he was pushing his hand into the blade of his katana and snatched it back, nearly toppling over from lack of support. Rock tumbled over him, bruising and cruel, and dust clogged his lungs, making his eyes water. Somewhere there was a flash of heat, and Kiku scrambled to get away, smashing his nose on a wall in the process. Blood poured down his front and trickled down the back of his throat, but that hardly mattered. Everything hurt, and all Kiku could think was _Not again, not again._

The bunker was old and outdated, and Kiku wouldn't put it past the Overlord to have developed weapons of mass destruction far more powerful than those made before the Uprising began. He cursed his ignorance—how had he even imagined that there was anywhere safe to hide?

Clouds of dust dissipated, bits of sky carving paths through it. Kiku squinted up at the gray expanse he was met with, bordered by crumbling walls, streams of soil and vegetation pouring into the crater that was the bunker, the bright orange of flame exploding in size, reaching up to the colorless outside. Kiku sat there for a moment, trying to piece together what had just happened. All he could feel and hear was the colossal pounding of his heart.

After a few minutes of contemplation, Kiku braced his hands against the ground, gathering his legs under him. It took much effort—and much sliding on the dust and rubble—before Kiku finally managed to stagger to his feet. He was barely standing for two seconds before he was forced to cling to a bit of debris for support. His hand brushed over something metallic and he peered upward to see that it was the hatch, leaning against a portion of the wall that was still standing upright. Kiku had been pressed into a corner by the blast while everything had crumbled around him. If the hatch hadn't been dislodged or if it had been just an inch off Kiku would either have been blown into a million pieces or crushed flat. He gasped in astonishment, but the more he surveyed the rest of the destruction the less he was grateful to have survived.

The hands again. The hands sticking out from beneath rock. Blood smeared on blank gray, everything white noise. The captives that Kiku had thought he'd saved were gone, not a survivor in sight. Poor Lidia and Evelyn had all but disappeared in the carnage, Evelyn with her round, accusatory eyes.

For a few minutes Kiku walked through the destruction. Liberated, the tunnel was filled with light, dust motes flickering with it here and there among the haze. It was strangely beautiful, and Kiku immediately found himself looking away. The display was almost mocking.

His eyes instead moved across the sky that peered in from above. It was distinctly empty, devoid of anything but flecks of snow. He let the bits of chill touch his face, soothe his hurts. His tired eyes slipped shut.

_"Kiku, what are you doing out here?"_

_Kiku's eyes snapped open and instead of being met with gray sky, Yao's critical face filled his vision. Kiku didn't say anything, didn't move. He watched a bit of snow land on Yao's cheek and noted how easily it blended into his skin._

_Yao gave a sigh, one that Kiku knew very well. For some reason Yao troubled himself with tending to Kiku every second of every day. Kiku couldn't understand why he even bothered if it was so frustrating a task for him._

_Yao crouched down and looked him in the eyes—as if that was something that fazed him. "It's cold and you will get very sick if you stay out here too long." Another sigh. A shake of the head. "Ai-ya, what were you even looking at? All of the birds have flown south. The sky is empty."_

No it isn't, _Kiku thought almost angrily._ There's always something in everything or else the world would be hollow. Can you not see the snow? _But Kiku would never tell Yao that. Kiku was young and little and Yao would never listen to what he had to say. That had already been proven._

_Yao rolled his eyes at Kiku's consistent staring and perpetual silence. "Whatever it was you were doing, I think it is best to save it for another day. Come, I have a fire going and supper is—oh, good gracious, what is this?"_

_Kiku followed the length of Yao's arm as it extended down to his leg. Yao cupped the tiny appendage in his large hand and scrutinized what appeared to be blood smeared on a stocking._

_"You are bleeding!" he said. "What did I say about coming out here when it's this cold? You walk through some thorny bushes, get hurt, and you don't even feel it." He continued on in Chinese, chastising and sighing and examining all under his breath, and Kiku wondered if the man knew he hated when he did that. He had been through many winters and similar accidents. The fact that he had survived long enough for Yao to find him and suddenly make it his responsibility to care for him was certainly not enough to constitute constant hen-pecking and chiding. Kiku merely stood there and lifted his eyes to sky again, allowing Yao to study him and mumble to himself unhindered for as long as he pleased._

_"Ai-yaaa, zhè háizi. Wǒ bù lǐjiě tā," Yao continued, shaking his head. He finally peered up, eyes ever so strict. "We need to dress that and get you warm. Let's go home."_

_Apparently, Kiku wasn't even capable of walking on his own, so Yao saw it fit to scoop him up in his arms and carry him. From afar, Yao would have resembled a woodsman carrying a bundle of furs. Kiku's eyes remained on the sky._

Heat licked at Kiku's cheeks and his eyes flung open, his vision immediately filling with bright oranges and yellows. A plane had dropped a shell on their little bunker and now fire was eating everything Kiku had once been foolish enough to call safe.

Kiku knew he should stay, search around in the rubble for people who may still have the capacity for life. But every time he so much as glanced at what was left of the bunker, the pile of rocks and metal and soot that now served as a mass grave, he felt sick to his stomach thinking about getting any closer. About seeing what was behind those crushed hands and bloody, grasping fingers. About seeing the extent of his mistake. Kiku swallowed the bile rising to his throat and peered up.

He was in a pit, surrounded on all sides by broken cement and swelling flame. The hatch had massacred the iron rungs beneath it, usually used to gain access to the upper system of tunnels. Kiku's eyes darted from one jagged ridge to another, his skin prickling with the growing proximity of the fire. Panic flew down to his feet from his hammering heart, lifting them, pushing them forward until he was staring up a near vertical incline of crags, hissing pipes, bent steel rods, and charred cement. His stomach turned over at the thought of climbing it, and yet he could feel blisters forming on his back as the fire extended burning fingers to caress him.

Rock bit into the pulsing wound on Kiku's palm, but he pressed on, clawing and scrabbling and leaving smears of blood in his wake. Columns of orange danced at the corner of his vision, pushing him, driving him, _upupup_. Nails split and cracked, feet stumbled, hands were rubbed raw, fire wreathed Kiku's ankles in sweltering heat. Many times he was forced to pause and get his bearings, having run out of every handhold he could find. He was more flustered than he had ever been, the flames melting the snow even before it could fall on his cheeks. Twice he nearly fell, saving himself the first incident by cramming his sore fingers into rocky groves, the second by skinning the underside of an arm in his effort to hang on.

Kiku gritted his teeth, a scream clawing at his throat as he turned his head up and realized he could no longer see the sky. He was trapped beneath a slab of concrete and twisted metal, wedged between cold stone and searing flame. Kiku could barely look down without squeezing his eyelids shut. The heat was enough to melt his eyes and the tears that manifested quickly became dry, sticky trails on his cheeks. He only knew one of his pant legs had caught fire when he smelled the material burning. The smoke it produced stung his already sore eyes, gathered beneath the outcrop and trapped him in perpetual haze. His lungs ached and his throat itched. Kiku longed to turn his whole body inside out to rid him of the irritation, of the constant _ache_. When he felt his skin on his leg wicked away by the grasping fire, Kiku froze, eyes screwed shut amid the smoke, lungs dormant of their own accord. For just a moment, Kiku was at ease, clinging to the debris, blackened and gaunt, hump-backed and plastered. A beetle caught beneath a lighter.

He should have died in that explosion. If not the first, then the second. Retribution was gnawing at his heels and he need only wait for it to swallow him entirely.

_Yao kicked open the door to their little hut and stepped over the threshold, kicking it back shut. Kiku lamented the loss of the sky while Yao grumbled to himself, laying him on the threadbare rug before the hearth and marching off to fetch the dressings. Kiku wriggled out of the bundle of furs Yao had so grudgingly wrapped him in, pulling his knees up to his chest as he watched the flames lick at the bottom of a hanging pot. He didn't need to stretch out to feel the heat; he closed his eyes and he was instantly ensconced._

_A low rumble of Chinese told Kiku that Yao had returned, now milling around in front of him, unrolling the cloth. He extended a hand and articulate fingers enveloped Kiku's little leg, forcing it to elongate and shattering the warmth._

_"Ai-ya," Yao huffed as he dipped the cloth in a poultice and dabbed at Kiku's scratch. "Why do you insist on staying here anyway? There are warmer places, with proper stoves. You could be in a palace with insulated walls and hearths that fill an entire room. Yet, here we are, wasting away in a hovel of mud and straw, the nearest village at least two days away by cart. So irrational and stubborn, honestly, zhè háizi."_

_Kiku merely watched him with blank eyes. It amused him how professional Yao tried to act even as he buzzed around like a frazzled fly. It also amused him how Yao could still not see the reason why Kiku chose to remain where he was instead of where Yao preferred him to be. He loved the open air and the trees and the banks of snow so cloudlike it was as if the world had been turned on its head. He liked the sound of snowmelt in the mornings, liked watching a mass of birds swell in a dark, harmonious mass against the pale horizon. He liked to go out during the summer and dip his feet into the water, giggling as the little fish sucked on his toes while he watched the sun make its wide arc across the sky to disappear in a splash of pink and gold and deep red behind the treetops. And he could never understand why Yao would feel the need to rush through the woods, shouting his name until he stumbled across him, chastising Kiku as he scooped him up and confined him to the hut where only the window let him know he and Yao weren't the only ones alive. Something about mosquitoes and brigands and wild animals and chills and somehow not being able to find his way home._

_Something like the situation they were in at the moment._

_"Okay," Yao said, tightening the knot so that the cloth clung firmly to Kiku's leg. Almost too firmly. "I think you will live." He pointed a stern finger at him. "But much more and you just may not." He snatched up the furs and bundled Kiku in them once again. He hummed in satisfaction when he could only see Kiku's face among the hair. "Good. Now stay where you are for once and rest."_

_Kiku barely blinked and Yao sighed, swiveling around to retrieve the boiling pot above the hearth. When Kiku shook the furs off of him and attempted to clamber out, Yao turned and spilled their boiling supper over Kiku's stocking-clad feet._

_Kiku squeaked in pain and tears wet his eyes as he scrambled away. He was quickly grabbed, however, by hands so strong he barely recognized them._

_"Oh my God, oh God, oh God," Yao rattled off as he clutched Kiku to him, nearly crushing the younger's nose against his shoulder in the process. He rushed over to the door, flinging it open and dropping to his knees in the snow. He tugged off the soiled stockings with speed that impressed even Kiku and plunged the boy's raw toes into the snow. Kiku let out a little sigh of relief but was just as soon wriggling with discomfort as the cold made his whole foot ache. Yao snatched him back up and cradled him close, rocking._

_"I'm sorry, Kiku," Yao blubbered pathetically and Kiku wished he would let go of him, would not hold him so tightly. It made Kiku feel extremely uncomfortable. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."_

_It seemed like Yao was the one compromised instead of Kiku, and they remained outside for a few more minutes before Yao found his senses and shuttled Kiku back inside again. "Are you hurt?" he kept asking as he sat Kiku on the end of their cot and examined his feet as if expecting them to suddenly fall off. "Does it burn? Don't cry. I'm sorry. I was… stupid. It won't happen again, I promise." He wasted no time in caring for Kiku's reddened feet which had suffered barely a few blisters. Throughout Yao's breathing gradually slowed, though his fingers remained uncharacteristically fast and jumpy. He didn't look at Kiku, as if doing so would make him feel guilty all over again._

_When Yao was finished, he stood and said, "I will make us some new supper. You just stay there and don't get up." He seemed almost hesitant to leave Kiku alone, but he eventually left to tend to the hearth and the mess across the floor._

_In the end, they didn't have any supper. Kiku had fallen asleep and woke in the middle of the night to see Yao passed out on the dirt floor. Kiku swung his feet over the side of the cot and they ached when they touched the floor. But the coolness of it soothed his hurts. He made his way over and stood over the older man. He looked exhausted. Hair stuck out of his normally well-maintained ponytail, his eyes were sunken, and he looked very pale._

You didn't have to worry about me to the point that you collapsed, you know, _Kiku wanted to tell him, but all he could do right then was throw the furs over him and crawl down beneath the warmth himself. He took one of Yao's hands in his own, the fingers icy._ Why do you take care of me? Why do you bother when I'm an annoyance to you?

Why don't you just leave me with my hut and my snow and my sky?

_Yao's only answer was a sigh, shivers rolling through him with the arrival of the warmth. Kiku merely watched Yao's breath mist before him, his eyes move beneath his lids._

Maybe I will understand when we are older. When we are both no longer children.

Kiku's fingers had begun to slip but now they left deep trails in the rock. He tried to open his eyes and found that he _couldn't_ open them, not with all the burning heat compressing him. He tried to take a breath and found that he couldn't breathe. Smoke had invaded his lungs and all he could breathe was smoke, smoke, choking, dying…

The fire eating him externally was nothing compared to the fire that sparked within him. All at once his muscles exploded to life and his brain was back to whirring again, his heart back to vigorously pumping. Suddenly, he wasn't a beetle anymore. He was a human being with responsibilities and cares and people who relied on him. He was older now. He should know better than to just give up.

Fire danced up the material on his leg, scorching the skin below, but Kiku took his chances and wrenched his hands from the rock, making a desperate grope upward even as he was tipping backward. His heart made one terrible bid to escape from his throat before his hands became splayed atop the outcrop, arms wrapped around, scraping as he clawed his way up inch-by-inch. His arms strained to pull his entire body even half the distance, and for a moment Kiku feared he would be burned alive. But that fear propelled him onward, _upupup_ until, miraculously, he was using his last burst of energy to tug his upper half across the grating surface. His legs were soon free and as much as he wanted to run until he could no longer see the crumbled buildings, the cratered streets, smell the smoke and blood and death, in the end he only managed to push himself a couple feet away from the pit that was now the bunker. He lay on his back and tried to focus on the gray, snowy sky rather than the fire that was sending tendrils out to him, barely brushing him and yet undeniably consuming.

The blast had demolished the bunker as well as a good portion of the tunnels above it. The sky was hedged by jagged arcs of damaged passageways and not an inch of ground was bare of debris. Fire danced up here too, Kiku soon saw, but the pipes that had burst were spilling their flammable contents into the pit more so than above, gushing down to be eagerly snapped up by the flames. Kiku's ears were still useless, but his eyesight had improved to the point that he could conclude that no one was around. He lay there as several imperceptible minutes ticked by, his body relaxing until all of him was one giant pulse to the tune of his heartbeat. With every passing flutter came more and more pain, a sting that shot up his legs and made his raw-rubbed hands clench at his sides. Blood oozed out warmly from between his fingers.

As his hearing slowly returned he could perceive the low rumble of plane engines that before existed as only vibrations through the fractured ground, resounding in his bones and turning them to jelly. What he had first taken for clouds he now identified as streams of jet exhaust, crisscrossing, polluting that which was once untouchable beauty.

 _I need to fix it,_ he thought and the next thing he knew he was on his stomach, arms outstretched, crawling. He dragged himself through the wreckage—the dirt, the rock, the dust, the ash, everything—feeling more a part of the destruction than something living, breathing. And the more he crawled, the more he lost that state of awareness, of physical being, the more he accepted it. But by the time he reached what was left of one of the tunnel mouths, gaping, veined with cracks and pocked with craters, and could hear voices, rising and falling with the rhythm of the rocking explosions, he no longer felt so worthless, like he should have died like everyone else around him had. He wasn't that beetle over the lighter anymore.

 _I am Honda Kiku,_ he reminded himself. He dug what was left of his nails into the gritty, curving wall of the tunnel, lifting himself. _I am Japan, one of the oldest countries in the world. And I am proud of such a title._ He ground his teeth as he struggled to keep his feet from slipping over the littered floor. _I have left my imprint, no matter what happens._ He walked until daylight faded behind him, replaced by the flickering fluorescence of the surviving lights. Everything was dark before him, but that was okay. It couldn't stay dark forever. _I have loved being Japan. Every second, whether good or bad, everything. And while in the past I have been constrained, whether politically, economically, or by any of the other myriad obstacles, this will be my choice._

_I'll fix this if it kills me._

Light yawned ahead of him, extending fingers along the walls until they reached Kiku's own. And he grabbed them, let them pull him, _outoutout_. Daylight.

And smoke and blood and death. A defense had gone off at a crossroads within the tunnel system, blown a gaping hole to the outside. Kiku stepped into the opening, gazing up even as soldiers, Resisters and Organization troops alike, came and went, shooting, cursing, screaming, dying. All Kiku was concerned with, however, was to get outside. Get outside and to HQ to kill the bastard that thought he was so grand as to control the world. Kiku had swallowed that bitter pill once. But he'd be more satisfied if the Overlord instead swallowed his own teeth.

He dropped his gaze, ducked his head, made to shuttle off down one of the intact tunnels surrounding him when a blast by his ear sent him stumbling off course. He squeezed tears from his eyes as his hand went flying up to his ear. He pulled it away. More blood was smeared on it than before. His eardrum was in agony, its high-pitched scream pounding through his skull. Before he could turn around to verify the cause, a weight pushed him to the ground, face inches from the bullet that had almost halved his head. He felt cruel fingers digging into him, pulling, pushing, trying to pin him. Kiku wrenched his hand loose and it shot down to his side only to be met with nothing.

He had left his katana to melt in the burning chasm that was the bunker.

One second a cool metal barrel was pressed to the back of his head and the next the barrel and the weight were gone, leaving Kiku to dart to his feet. His eyes jumped from one shadowy form to another, watching them disappear one-by-one down the passageways. It took a moment for the Resisters to gather what was happening, that their quarry had left. They made to follow, and Kiku did as well, but it was a moment too late.

The explosion had opened the tunnels up to the dangers outside, dangers too big for those inside. And like an ant nest exposed, the dangers came raining down on them. Insecticide in the form of poison gas.

Kiku barely heard the jet roar away. He had covered his face and attempted to escape into one of the tunnels before the chemicals could reach him. But the gas was quick to fall and swirl and clog every space it could reach. Kiku couldn't identify it. All he knew was that it was red, made his eyes burn, and made every inhale more and more devoid of air. He stopped where he was and dug inside his vest. Fingers found the straps of his gas mask and he pulled it on, soon finding that it was punctured and cracked and completely useless. Mentally cursing, he threw it aside and tried to stop himself from hyperventilating. A few rapid breaths and his lungs would swell shut for good.

 _Fix it, fix it,_ Kiku thought, screwing his eyes shut and running, tripping, righting himself until he found a wall. He followed it with his hands as it arched away and deeper into the tunnels. He groped his way along and suddenly there was nothing else to grope. Seeing his chance, he raced down the passage, not quite sure if it was a passage, an opening, a hallucination, but still running. He eventually escaped the gas, though it still clung to him, giving him a coat of red grit. His muscles screamed for air as his legs pumped on, his lungs squeezing, _squeezing_ everything out, and everything was soon not enough. He forced himself to stop and crouch, mouth opening, throat expanding, but unable to rasp in enough of oxygen. Air, air everywhere, and not a drop to breathe.

He decided that if he was going to die, he might as well have a last look at the world. He peeled his eyelids open, lashes sticky with the grit of the chemical, and saw…

Nothing.

He blinked. Again, nothing. Another blink. More nothing. _Nothing. Nothing. Nothing._ Black. But this was a black blacker than black. This was emptiness.

 _I'm blind,_ Kiku concluded and yet his body didn't acknowledge what his mind was telling it, lifting his hands to his face to examine the remnants of the chemical.

_His hands were bloody and smeared with soot. They were scarred and wrinkled and… not his. He stared, not quite knowing what to make of these stranger's hands. They had to be a stranger's, didn't they?_

_Pebbles crunching beneath boot soles made him redirect his gaze upward. Then he was staring at another stranger. His skin was sallow, his cheeks were gaunt, his hair was shorn and unkempt, his clothes were ragged. But his eyes. His eyes were something Kiku knew and had forgotten._

_The man stopped no less than six feet away from him. His eyes became heavy, enough for them to fall away and examine the ground. Kiku longed for those eyes. He would spend the day puzzling them out—a much better activity than going over the broken pieces that were his country._

_"I don't think I will ever be able to forgive you for what you did," Yao said, and his voice sounded different. It didn't sound overconfident or chiding or strict. It was fractured and halting, almost sickly. And that hurt Kiku more than even the words that came along with that voice. Yao cleared his throat, an action that soon morphed into a cough. Kiku felt one itching at his own throat, but he swallowed it. He couldn't cough. Not when Yao was standing before him, haggard and frail. He didn't deserve to cough._

_"I don't think I can forgive you," Yao said and those heavy eyes lifted to Kiku's own, held up only by the dark, puffy skin beneath. They were bloodshot and wide and exceedingly wet. Yet, still, they were the same ones Kiku had known since that meeting in the woods. "But in spite of everything, I also don't think I will be able to hate you. Something in me… simply won't allow it." Yao's brow furrowed, almost in confusion. Perhaps frustration. "You can stand here and lament all you've lost for centuries if you want. But that's not what I want for you. I want you to prosper, Japan. I want everything for you, and I'm angry at myself for wanting that. I should be furious. I should want to kill you, but I don't. I can't hurt you. I don't know why, but I can't. And I hope that you will one day lose your blindness and see that by hurting me you only hurt yourself. Maybe one day you will see for the both of us just why that is."_

_I know._ Kiku went from a crouch to his knees to lying on his stomach. His cheek pressed against the grime and cold of the floor. _You knew long before me. Why else would you have come?_

He lay there and rasped, the tube he was breathing through growing smaller and smaller until it wasn't even worth it to breathe. It wasn't worth having his eyes open either if he could not see, so he closed them. He imagined he was a little boy again, curling up next to Yao under the furs and feeling his warmth, not quite knowing what to think of it, not acknowledging that it would become anything significant, even though Kiku had remained awake the entire night, watching Yao until the sun came up and the man awoke. Kiku didn't know why he had done such a thing, but now he did know, just like he had known when he started putting the pieces of himself back together not so long ago.

_I discovered I was missing a piece. And that piece was you._

It was curious how wetness rolled down his cheeks even after his heart stopped beating.

* * *

Translations:

 _zhè háizi-_ this child

 _Wǒ bù lǐjiě tā_ -I don't understand him

A Word From the Writer: Wow, this was kinda... unintentionally full of some pretty emotional stuff. I guess I just wanted to show that Japan isn't as emotionless as he appears. And I found that I like ending chapters with one profound sentence. Yup, that's pretty much a fancy way of saying "Japan is dead." And right after he acknowledged a bunch of shit between him and China too. So sad.

I had fun including the little flashbacks in China's POV so I decided to express their relationship by including some here. The last flashback is set in post-WWII Japan just because feels. I know it's a little late for posting (jeez almost three days over) but I've been busy and I really wanted to make everyone's chapter special. So I took the time to make Japan's chapter special... then killed him. Still don't know if anyone else is going to live yet, but here's your first taste of how badly things could go.

As for the next post... eh, I dunno. I'm definitely gonna keep posting till I finish this behemoth but I'm bogged down by so many fucking projects I swear teachers wanna kill me before I have the chance to GET OUT OF THIS FUCKING SCHOOL. *sigh* And on top of that next week my family is coming over (both sides converging. It's gonna be messy) and ten people will be staying at my house so fat chance of me posting anything till after the first week of June. Though if I find the time I may stock up on some POVs to post when I get the time. Until then, yeah, unpredictable.

Next are Germany and Canada! (will they live?).


	121. Rise

**Phew, hiatus over. Let's get this shit done, and let's get it done right with some kick-ass Germany!**

Warning: Violence, weapons, fight scene, gore, psychological torture, references to the Third Reich, bashing, sad stuff, sensitive material, possible character deaths, OC, and a hint of GerIta.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

_"Each one of us must carry within the proof of immortality, it cannot be given from outside of us. To be sure, everything in nature is change but behind the change there is something eternal."_

—Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

**Rise**

"I thought I would never find you."

The words rang off the gritty walls, stretching down the tunnel until it was swallowed by the dark and dank that was the Organization's refuge. But it seemed like ages until Ludwig truly understood them. Even then he could not fully comprehend the sight before him.

"Shawn," Ludwig addressed, weakened lungs protesting at his efforts to hammer his tone emotionally flat, "Why are you here? Your job was to—"

"I damn well know what my fucking job is," Shawn cut in venomously. Everything about him was unnaturally steady and constant. He didn't so much as blink. Except for his mouth. That smirk twitched impossibly wider. "I'm here to blast your head open and show everyone just how much of a fucking gullible idiot you are."

Ludwig had heard worse, but the weight that clung to such words had never been so heavy. He braced himself further against the curving wall, praying his bruised legs didn't give out. This time, he trusted his voice to work the way he wanted it to. "But Shawn, why are you doing this? I thought you were with us." Innocently frightened. Good enough.

"The Overlord usurped the government," Shawn said. "You of all people should have taken that as a sign that he has eyes everywhere. You have your moles, but the Organization has better ones. They can dig deeper."

Ludwig was transported back to those woods in Montana, staring at the back of Alfred's head as the man pressed his weapon to Higgins' forehead, the look in the captive's eyes as he said, _"I-I can't, man! Please, you don't understand! He works for a higher power. He has connections. They'll kill me if they find me and find out I told you! They have eyes everywhere!"_

How little they had believed such a thing until that river, that house in Chicago, that wind-parched tree with the braided twine.

"How could you?"

"How _couldn't_ I? It was too easy." Shawn took a step forward, the sound of his heel striking the cement floor echoing off the walls until it seemed a roar to Ludwig's ears. "But I knew I could fly under the radar. You countries have lost everything but your arrogance. You think you always have everything under control, even though you led the world to shit. Well, this is one wakeup call that will be your last. After this, there will be no waking up for you. You don't deserve it and you're just holding us back."

"Back from what?" Ludwig asked, sincerely curious. His hand had been slowly sliding up his thigh. When his fingers met textured plastic, he began counting seconds.

Shawn scoffed. "You really are blind, aren't you? All this shit that's going down around you, everything the Overlord has built… it's how the world is now. There's no room for you and your shitty ideals. This is a new era and you're keeping people from what they really want."

Fingers curled around the grip. "And what is that?"

Another step forward. "Harmony. Efficiency. Peace. Everything pieces of shit like you have kept us from."

"I'm sorry, then," Ludwig said, just barely keeping his voice in check. His hand was trembling with rage, and disbelief, and _how dare he, how_ dare _he_? "But I don't consider peace something that's given through the barrel of a gun."

Shawn's leer changed then. Just a little twitch, and Ludwig was staring at the most sinister expression he had ever beheld. "Oh yeah?" the man scoffed. "Have you lost all memory of your own history along with your wits?"

The last thread of Ludwig's patience snapped and everything in him ignited. He was through with tact and subtleties. And he was through with being ambushed. His fingers wrapped around the butt of his weapon and snatched it from its holster with speed only rage could prompt. He found his feet and forgot all the pain he had suffered and everything went numb, every nerve humming and ready for a single purpose. It wasn't hard to take aim at Shawn, despite memories of his deceivingly soft face gnawing at Ludwig's gut. The memories spurned him on, made him all the more determined to destroy what creature had taken root in Shawn's body and was tarnishing all the good that was in him. Because everyone was good at one point. Whether already turned by the Overlord's ideals or not, when Ludwig had met Shawn he had glimpsed what could have been a great man. In Shawn he had seen himself, and in the man's madness he saw his future.

And that scared him more than he could describe.

But when he brought his gun up at the end of a stiff arm and white-knuckled fingers, Shawn merely grunted derisively, lowered his own weapon, turned on his heel, and ran.

Ludwig's mind was muffled by instinct, finger twitching on the trigger, sending bullet after bullet in Shawn's direction until he disappeared around a corner.

" _Coward_!" Ludwig yelled and took off after him, heart kicking into overdrive when he rounded the corner and was met with a maze of rubble and open sky streaked with threatening jet streams. He stood there for a moment, eyes scanning over the wreckage, furious at himself for allowing Shawn to slip into hiding. But though he could not see the man, he knew Shawn had not left him. The man knew Ludwig's determination would drive him to chase.

"Lost, are we?" Shawn's voice rang out, bouncing off the crags, distorting his voice until it was just as jagged as the rocks he was hiding amongst. It came at Ludwig in many different directions, attacking him from all sides and leaving him no choice other than to enter Shawn's sanctuary. One that hid everything behind sharp corners and amplified a simple scuff to a giant's footstep.

"Well, come on, _Germany_ ," came the mocking provocation. Ludwig took a few steps to his right before his ears detected movement elsewhere and his feet took him to his left. "You sought people out back then, didn't you? You didn't have a problem tracking them down and killing them without a care."

Ludwig's lungs burned to reply, but he forced himself to remain silent, to place every footstep like he was walking on thin ice. He reached a protrusion of shattered concrete and twisted piping, ducking beneath the haphazard arc they created and was confronted with a towering slab of fissured rock that used to form the slanting wall of a tunnel. He peered upward to the sliver of gray sky he saw and heard the dry shuffle of boot soles behind him.

"You think you're so right," Shawn went on as Ludwig held his breath, watched the shadows of feet moving languidly beneath gaps between rock and floor, the spaces widening until the debris yawned into the arc Ludwig had passed beneath only seconds before. "You, who mere decades ago indulged in the beliefs of a mass murdering tyrant. Tell me, how can you say you know best with a past that despicable? You may have been forgiven, you may have progressed, but still, inside, you know you are capable of such atrocities. A thing like that never disappears. All you nations have it, but you, oh, you're unique. And I must admit, I'm quite surprised."

The footsteps stopped just around the corner, and Ludwig crouched and braced his back against the wall, hand traveling down to grip his weapon only to slip and catch himself—and find a large opening just off the floor. The boots began to move again.

"Considering your past, you should be substantially susceptible to propaganda and pretty rhetoric. It's a wonder you haven't already sided with the Overlord, as weak-minded and malleable as you are. You think you can fix this world by being a leader, but how can you be when you're such an avid follower? A few innocents killed. Women, children, the disabled. Nothing you couldn't handle. No questions asked. Such a loyal dog. You'd be perfect for the Overlord. Perfect—once you discard that pesky, superficial morality."

Shawn's voice faded a bit even though his words rang in Ludwig's mind, those shadows retreating beneath the rock, away from the arc. Ludwig's hand slid toward his escape route, the jagged hole battered into the concrete. But he could not convince himself to move any further.

 _A follower,_ he thought and the more he thought it, the more he believed it. Could he be capable of something so vile—again? He thought he had learned his lesson, but what had he done to the man who had confronted him earlier? He had raged and taken out his eyes. All because he hadn't seen what he wanted to see. Because he had been caught up in a moment of violent indifference. How many more of those moments could he have? How indifferent could he yet become? Shawn's voice returned, a leer evident within the tone, nowhere and everywhere at once. In his head.

"You call the Overlord a monster. It's laughable that such an accusation can be made by a man who has yet to take responsibility for all that he's done. What kind of hero do you hope to be if you can't even call yourself a monster? If you can look at someone else and their ideals and not see the same flaws in them as you have in yourself?"

Ludwig remained crouching, legs starting to shake with the immense weight of Shawn's vicious words. Who was he? All those years… were they merely spent building lies of morality to smother desires that were lying dormant? He slid to the floor and ran a hand through his mussed hair.

 _"Ti amo, Luddy."_ Suddenly, Feliciano was there, smiling. And Ludwig was peering up, covered with soot and blood and tears he refused to let fall. The Italian was soiled as well, but his smile never faltered. It was the sun when there was no sun to be had. He extended a hand. _"Come with me, Germany. You are hurt and you need help."_

 _"Leave, Italy,"_ Ludwig had said, turning away to survey all that was left of his broken world. _"I will be shunned. No one will want to help me."_

Feliciano had done something astonishing then. His face had taken on a look of determination that Ludwig had only seen once. _"I will not let them hurt you, Germany. I promise."_ When Ludwig made no sign of getting up, Feliciano crouched down next to him. _"You are not a bad person. You and Prussia and Japan and me… it's just been our time. Everyone becomes misguided. It's not a hard mistake to make. And now that it's over and the lesson has been learned, we can start again. Now that we have been at our lowest, we have more incentive to rise to our highest and stay there. You are not a bad person, Germany. You didn't know, but now you do. So, Germany,"_ the hand was extended again, and that smile returned. _"Will you rise with me?"_

 _Yes,_ Ludwig thought, lowering himself to his belly and pulling himself to the gap. He had to be at his lowest to rise to his highest. To be indifferent he had to be incapable of compassion. What had been those tears for his brother? What had been that flutter in his chest when Feliciano said 'Ti amo' after their time in the cot together?

His arm disappeared through the opening, through to his second chance. Then his other arm. _I didn't know then, but I know now._ He ducked his head and pushed through, clawing and groping, taking back his confidence and banishing his doubt. _And I will never let it happen again._

He held his breath and crammed himself through, muscles straining, fingers clenched around his gun. Shoulders free, he lifted his head but an inch and his heart jumped into his throat. The shadows had returned.

Shawn was peering down at him with the same over-wide leer. "Still think you can take back this world?" He raised a boot and brought it down on Ludwig's hand. The German grunted, dropping his weapon and watching helplessly as it was kicked away. "Trapped like a mouse," the man scoffed. "But I'm sorely disappointed. I was expecting more of a chase. Oh well, what do you expect from something so broken?" Ludwig's eyes locked with the barrel of Shawn's gun even as his hand searched the floor for salvation.

It came in the form of a curved steel rod. He hefted it with all his might, whipping it around and catching Shawn's ankle. The man gave a startled shout as he tumbled backward, just barely catching himself on a pile of debris behind him. Ludwig hadn't succeeded in wriggling all of his torso through the opening before Shawn had gotten to his feet again, hair wild, eyes piercing, and limbs shaking with rage. "Just wait. Just wait, you cocky fucker." The gun was aimed again and Ludwig could only stare. "You think this is hell. It's nothing compared to where your sinful ass is going. After I'm through with you, I'll take your brains to show off to that little Italian fag. Show him how rotten you really are inside."

Ludwig dare not close his eyes. If he was meeting death like this, he would do so without a flicker of fear crossing his face. Shawn couldn't break him. Not unless Ludwig allowed it.

The roar of a jet overhead made Ludwig waver in his hard stare, and one blink later something large and metallic was falling into their little maze. Before his mind could process what it was, his body was cramming itself back through the hole and back beneath the precarious arc of piled rock and curling rods. Not a second later, Ludwig's ears were ringing and muffled with the blast of a shell, rolling heat and pressure pressing against his meager shelter until it began to quake and crumble around him. He was pelted with falling rocks and nearly sliced through by a stray bar, but he stumbled out, muscles quivering with the explosion, in time to see the concrete hut collapse into a heap of dust and rubble.

Ludwig didn't take time to assess the damage; all he could think of was that jet roar and how many more were echoing it, zooming across the sky and slashing it with clouds of choking exhaust, how he had to get away, run, run, _more was coming._ So he picked himself up and set his legs to running, however exhausted or shaken they were, toward where he thought an intact tunnel might be. He ignored the pain that flared in his skin whenever he lost his footing and scraped himself against a crag to catch himself. He brushed off the burns he had received that seemed to be gnawing into his flesh. But when he saw a mop of brown hair and a body wedged beneath a slab of fractured wall, he couldn't help but redirect his footsteps there.

At first, Ludwig thought the man was dead. He was crushed from the waist down and he wasn't moving at all. But within a few feet of what, for all appearances, looked like a corpse, Shawn lifted his head and let out a low grown akin to dying dog. Not wanting to be caught off guard like he had before, Ludwig yanked a steel rod from the rubble and raised it above his head. His arms were weak but corded stiff with the thought of eliminating one more person that stood in the way of what he knew was right. And he _knew_ , no matter what anyone said. He had learned his lesson. It was his time to rise, but Shawn would not rise again as long as he could help it.

That heavy head turned, the groan continued, until dark eyes met Ludwig's own. They were wet and hazy and not as cruel as before. That sinister leer had been replaced with a pained, desperate grimace. "L-Ludwig?"

Ludwig knew he shouldn't let his guard down so easily, but the scared look in Shawn's eyes, how he appeared so small and helpless beneath his deathtrap, made him lower the rod in his hands. Shawn's eyes instantly darted to it upon seeing it move, then locked his gaze with Ludwig and let out a quivering breath. "You… aren't gonna to kill me with that, are you?"

Ludwig's hands suddenly became very clammy, and the rod slipped. He barely heard the clatter of it on the floor, barely felt his feet move toward Shawn. He stood over the man for a long moment, assessing his condition, seeing the scared look in his eyes and no longer recognizing the killer who had confronted him earlier. What he saw was a child.

"I-I'm… I can't move," Shawn said, voice barely above a whisper. He blinked and the wetness in his eyes trailed down his cheeks. "Am I going to die?"

Ludwig crouched down next to Shawn before he could think about the possible repercussions, eyes moving to Shawn's pelvis, shattered and flattened by the concrete that had caught him. "Why?" was all he could ask, even though he knew Shawn did not know the answer.

Shawn's swimming eyes grew wide before he screwed them shut. "I can't remember anything. W-why… can't I remember? Urgh." He splayed his hands on the rock crushing him and pushed with all his might. "Move—ah, _dammit_!" His eyes flew open again, tears sliding down freely now. "Please, tell me what happened. D-did I follow you? I-I—" He paused and seemed to stop breathing for a moment, staring at the rock on top of him. "It was _him_ , wasn't it? H-he wanted me to…" He looked to Ludwig again. "Whatever I did… please forgive me. The voices. It was… was the voices, they're real, they—I _can't_ …" He gave one last push with everything he had, but it was obvious that the heavy concrete could not be moved. Shawn let out a sob and grabbed Ludwig's ankle. "I-I'll lay here and die. I'm gonna die. Please, don't let me. Don't let me…"

Ludwig made to stand. "I will find help—"

"No!" Shawn's fingers tightened on his ankle, pulled him back down. "No, please… p-please, I'm finished, I—just, j-just do it yourself." Ludwig blinked at him, unsure of what Shawn was requesting until the man's eyes trailed over to Ludwig's discarded rod. "Do it fast. Please. That's all I ask."

Ludwig was frozen. This man he had wanted nothing more than to kill mere minutes before he could never imagine killing now. "Nein. I… I will get you help. I will—"

"No one can help me." It came as a whisper, accompanied by a swimming, beseeching gaze. "I'm halfway gone. Please, finish the rest. Please. Quickly."

Ludwig stared at him for what felt like hours before the roar of another jet engine overhead drove him to his feet. He picked up the steel rod and brought it above his head once more. Shawn peered up at him and said, "I never meant to hurt anyone. If I did… forgive me. I-I… I'm not a b-bad person. I swear."

Ludwig's hands shook just a bit, but he forced them steady. His face was blank and his eyes empty, knowing what he had to do, knowing that he only had seconds before his conscience kicked in and he thought better of it. "I know."

It was quick, like Shawn had wanted. Just a single blow to his head and the man's eyes were neither cruel nor desperate. They were just… dead. Ludwig wanted so much to drop the rod afterward, but he had no gun and he had lost his knife. It was all he had.

He left the maze and Shawn's body behind. _Voices_ , he thought, eyes locking on an intact tunnel, weaving through the crags toward it. _Voices. Feliciano._ If anything, he had to make it to him. The man had been there at his darkest hour. It was only right of him to return the favor.

An explosion down the tunnel had Ludwig pulling up short. He drew an arm over his face, dust rushing up to meet him. His eyes watered and he coughed, and the ground was shivering beneath his feet, but he continued forward, knowing this was the right way. The only way.

He heard footsteps again, running toward him, and forms flitted by on either side of him, not stopping. Ludwig braced, but he was not harmed and he did not stop. They could run, but he wouldn't.

He reached the end of the tunnel and climbed over a small mountain of rubble before dropping down into a shell-blasted crater. Something red and thick was billowing toward him, and he scrambled for his gas mask. He pulled it on and made a dash through the gas, noting how it burned his skin and made his muscles ache. He stumbled around in the red fog, nearly blind, bumping into stray rocks and cutting himself on piping, jolting away when met with the harsh lick of fire against him. Minutes seemed to stretch into hours, but he found a wall and then a gap, and then all he could think about were the voices.

He was barely halfway down the tunnel, eyes locked in front of him, _just a few more feet, just around that corner,_ when his foot caught on something soft and heavy. He threw out his hands, the rod flying as he caught himself. Grunting, he dragged himself to his feet and retrieved his rod. He was fully prepared to continue running down the tunnel. Instead, he looked back.

"Mein Gott." Ludwig dropped the rod and rushed over, skidding through the grime on his knees until he came to rest over the body that had tripped him. "Mein Gott. Mein Gott. Nein, nein." But as he rolled it over and pushed back the matted, red-crusted hair, saw those studious, hooded eyes, he knew. _Kiku._

He leaned down to press an ear to the man's chest, but Kiku's ribcage might as well have been hollow. He could hear nothing. And, despite himself, Ludwig whimpered. "Kiku. Japan." The man was so small, curled up and covered with red grit. There was no mask in sight. He had suffocated. He had suffered.

Ludwig shook his head and brushed a thumb along Kiku's cheek, suddenly absorbed with the urge to scrub every bit of the horrible residue off of him. _It wasn't supposed to happen this way. You were supposed to be cut down by someone powerful. Not by this goddamn gas._ Ludwig felt heat gathering in his face and his eyes burning, but he continued to dutifully scrub. And then he stopped.

Because Kiku was still warm. Very warm.

"Nein," Ludwig said and tore off his mask. He tossed it to the side and folded his hands together on Kiku's chest. "Nein, you're not finished. Not yet."

He began rhythmic presses, over and over again, trying to keep himself from shaking. Every few presses he paused and sealed his lips over Kiku's, reassured by the warmth he was met with, forcing air into the man's deflated lungs. When Kiku's chest did not rise, Ludwig returned to his presses with a fury. "Come on, come on. I know you can, you resilient bastard, come _on_." He leaned over again, breathed for him. And Kiku's chest rose weakly with the air he received. Encouraged and anxious, Ludwig returned to the presses, waiting for a flutter, for a twitch, for _anything_ to tell him that Kiku wasn't gone. A few more presses, another breath, a rising chest. Still, a hollow ribcage.

"Please," Ludwig begged. He lifted his head to the cracked ceiling. "Please, save him. I'm doing everything I can, but it's not enough, dammit. Save him. Make him breathe, please. Don't let him die like this. Help him!" His world was compressions and breaths. Everything around him didn't matter. _Please, don't punish me for what I did by taking him,_ Ludwig thought, mind going to that steel rod, stained with Shawn's blood. _It was only right. He begged me. It was only right._

_Rise with me, Kiku. Rise, goddammit!_

Ludwig kept pressing, was determined to keep pressing until his arms gave out, and then something stirred. His breath caught and he held it, ceasing his ministrations, ear returning to Kiku's chest.

His heart was beating.

And his chest rose.

Ludwig pulled back, not realizing he was crying until his vision became so distorted that he struggled to pick Kiku up, heft the man over his shoulder. He got to his feet and ran, feeling so light it was like he flew. His mind was empty, but his body knew where to go, _outoutout_ , and there he was, standing at a gate with Resistance medics surrounding him.

"Take him," he shouted over shell blasts and jet engine roars. "He needs oxygen. He breathed the gas. Take him!"

A stretcher was brought to him, Kiku laid gently down, still alarmingly limp but chest rising subtly. Ludwig watched them put a mask over his mouth, carry him away, and he turned and ran even as a medic shouted after him, "Sir, sir! Where are you going? You're hurt!"

 _Voices._ Ludwig had blinders on, marching through ash and blackened snow, cutting through swarms of Resistance fighters and Organization soldiers, bullets flying, ground quaking, screams, blasts, blood. But all he saw was HQ, just down the road, _almost there, Feliciano, almost there, I'm coming._

But Ludwig would never get to HQ. Because someone shot him in the leg, and he went toppling.

He couldn't feel the wound, he was so high on adrenaline, but he also couldn't get up. And he didn't know why. Frustration gripped him, and by the time his assailant reached him and snatched him up by the arm, he lashed out and only then realized that he had left his rod in the tunnel.

The soldier laughed. "C'mon, blondie. We're having a party. And you're one lucky fuck for being invited."

Ludwig was dragged off at gunpoint and could do nothing but stumble in his attempt to keep up. He was brought to the edge of the fight, through the Organization line where he was spit on and sworn at. Men were lined up, guns at the ready, joking and firing rounds at Resistance captives, laughing as their corpses tumbled into a deep pit. As Ludwig approached, he could see hands and feet and faces. Dead faces.

"Here ya go, _Germany_ ," the soldier holding him sneered, releasing him and shoving him toward the edge of the pit. The others paused in their snickering long enough to reload and take aim. "Well? You should know the drill better than anyone. Anything ya wanna say?"

Ludwig was silent and just stared, stoic. And the soldier became angry.

"All righty, then. No skin off my back. I got this one, boys." His finger twitched on the trigger of his rifle. "You'll talk later. I'll make sure of that."

 _This is my punishment,_ Ludwig thought as the bullet sliced through his other leg and he lost his footing. _But I rose. I_ flew. He fell backward onto limp bodies and jutting limbs. The soldier appeared over the crest of the pit, but all Ludwig had eyes for was the sky. And the snow. _Feli loves snow._

"There," the soldier spat. "Now you can scream your brains out when we bury you alive. Give us an apology, and we might put one in your head before we shovel dirt down your throat." More snickers and guffaws, but the soldier's sneering face wouldn't be the last thing Ludwig would see. The sky, marred by jet streams and thunderheads, was still beautiful.

"Hey! What're you—"

Gunshots brought his attention back to the top of the pit to see the sneering soldier falling in. His eyes searched the crest, heart pounding, unsure if he should be relieved or afraid. The dead soldier's comrades followed, corpses before they hit the pile. And then Red and Danny were peering down at him, ruffled, soot-smeared, bloody, but no less stunning.

"What are you doing lazing around?" Red laughed. She and Danny climbed down and pulled him out. Ludwig couldn't stand, so he dropped to his hands and knees, catching his breath as pain returned to him.

"Feli?" was all he could get out, but Red picked up on his question.

"I… I lost him," she replied, guilt heavy in her voice. "He wandered off and I've looked for him."

Ludwig winced as he held his bleeding leg. "E-everywhere?"

"No. Everywhere but H—"

The ground rumbled, the sky lit up, and the roar of a blast sliced through them all. Ludwig struggled to his feet and leaned on Danny.

"My God," the plump, bespectacled man breathed. "They're… they're gone."

Ludwig took an unsteady step forward. He stumbled and Red slung one of his arms over her shoulders. "Not if I can help it," the German grunted.

Red patted him on the back as Danny took Ludwig's weight on the other side. "That's what I like to hear."

Together, they made their way toward the smoking inferno that was HQ. Feliciano's smile was still as clear in Ludwig's mind as it was nearly seven decades ago.

 _Now it's time for you to take_ my _hand, Feli. I won't let them hurt you, I promise. I will see you rise, because we cannot fall again. We learned. It's our time once more._

_Together we will rise. I'll make it happen. You can't fall._

_We haven't even started yet._

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Sooo, hey, been a while, over... three weeks? Yikes. Sorry bout that, folks. Had some crazy shit going on with family and screaming kids and _socializing_ and niceties and... ew, thank God it's over. Well, not really. I still got a whining toddler and a screeching baby in my house, but they'll be gone within the week. And then... peace. Sweet, sweet silence. I've said it before and I'll say it again _I never want children._ The grabby, irrational little buggers. I'd rather jump off a cliff. Along with babysitting and whatnot I also graduated Magna Cum Laude, yay. Woulda got Summa if I had taken a math or science or another college course this year, but, meh, good enough. Valedictorian had a 4.77 GPA. I was like, bro why didn't you get outta this school while you _could_? XD

Anyway, back to the fanfiction. Yeah, we got Germany here, being all manly and then all tortured and then weepy and then resigned and then determined. Just a shitload of emotions going on. Annnd we got Japan back! It took three weeks of worrying and feels and thinking Japan was dead, but voila, he is alive! Well, if he gets enough oxygen that is. As for Shawn... damn, I took one of my favorite OCs, turned him evil, turned him back, and then crushed him, then had Germany beat him to death with a steel rod. Brutal, but oh the feels. It was worth it. And if I offended anyone with the bashing and the whole pit thing, I'll apologize in advance. I go for the feels and making Germany doubt himself to the point of near mental breakdown is just too awesome a situation to pass up. Also, that conversation between Italy and Germany in italics alludes to the end of WWII. I did it with Japan, figured I'd continue with it.

Next is Canada. And, no, you STILL won't know what happened to everyone who was in HQ. I just keep bringing up the fact that it blows up to irritate you. Jk, it's for the feels. Always the feels.


	122. Bright

**SUSPENSE. Suspense OUT THE ASS.**

Warning: Violence, threats, gore, mention of rape and pedophilia, mental torture, angst, fight scene, abuse.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

_"Take up our quarrel with the foe:_

_To you from failing hands we throw_

_The torch, be yours to hold it high._

_If ye break faith with us who die_

_We shall not sleep, though poppies grow_

_In Flanders fields."_

—Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, "In Flanders Fields"

**Bright**

_"Just… stay safe, okay?"_

_I'm sorry, Al. I couldn't._

Pain seared through his skull, rattled down his neck, his spine, making all of his nerves ignite in a scream of agony. Nothing else mattered outside of his pain, trapping him in an embrace too tight to escape from, even as an arc of ceiling pinned him to the ground, muscles echoing with ache, unable to function, a rain of rock plummeting down to meet him. Dust filled his eyes and mouth, and he was grateful that he couldn't see the avalanche that would surely kill him.

But it didn't.

The sounds woke him up: of pebbles rolling under shoe soles, rocks groaning ominously above him, the low hum of voices. Then he felt the hand on his shoulder.

"Mister, hey Mister. You dead?"

It was a great effort for Matthew to pry his eyelids open, but when he did all he saw was black and he nearly panicked. Until he realized that he was lying face-down. He tried to lift his head, but it was heavier than he remembered. Groaning at how hopelessly feeble he felt, he dragged his arms up to either side of his head, splaying his hands on the dust-slippery floor, pebbles biting into his palms. He gave one great push that squeezed the breath from his lungs and swung his head upward, gulping air and choking at how thick it was.

"Whoa, Mister, you all right?"

Matthew got his breathing under control and regarded the round, young face staring expectantly at him, framed by dusky wisps of frayed, burnt hair that might have been a pretty shade of blonde at one point. He nodded his head—or so he thought he did until he saw that the girl's expression had not changed. "Fine," he croaked, startled at how rough and unfamiliar his voice sounded. He pushed himself onto his ass with a grunt and propped himself up with a quivering arm, hunching over and rubbing at his throat, as if he sought to banish the stranger's tone from his voice. He swallowed, tasted blood, and lifted his hand to his face. He couldn't breathe out of his nose and found out why.

"Didn't you used to have glasses, Mister? I could find them. I think I might have saw them somewhere," the girl said. She was sitting on her knees, bleeding from the head. Both her little hands were spread against the floor, fingers black with soot. Angry red flesh continued up her arms. Blood dribbled down into her eye, and when she went to wipe it off she pushed back her hair and revealed a scorched, shriveled ear. He forgot his pain with the sight of the girl, who seemed to be more alert and unfazed than he was feeling. He snatched his hand from his throat and placed both on his knees, forcing his cramped back to straighten.

"Yeah," he said, forcing himself to form words, however difficult the action seemed. He gritted his teeth and clenched his fingers when he was met with a stinging jab in his lower back. _Fuck._ "G-glasses… I lost them. But I don't need them, I… I'm fine, really."

The girl smiled a bit and pointed to a place beside him. "You had lots of rocks and stuff on you. They looked heavy, so I rolled them off."

Matthew craned his neck to study the pile of shattered concrete, eyes focusing on a twisted length of steel rod. _Is that what got me in the back? Damn…_ He turned back to her and twitched one side of his lips into an unsteady smile. "Thanks." He observed what was before him: cracks extending spidery fingers across the floor, bits of concrete and piping and metal, piles of dust painted red with smears of blood, black scorch marks where fire swept—and the bodies. Barely recognizable covered in dust, black with burns, missing limbs, some of them partly crushed. They had been thrown back by the blast before their bodies were flattened by falling rock. A child sat crying before a chunk of concrete so large, Matthew could barely see around it. He shifted a bit and immediately wished he hadn't. A hand peeked out from beneath the rock, fingers curled like it had been grasping. Past the elbow, nothing else was visible. Nothing but a splatter of blood, as if the poor woman had been an insect smashed beneath a shoe sole with little effort if any. The image was so sickeningly familiar it almost made Matthew vomit.

He pulled his eyes back to the girl, the only one that seemed to make sense in all of this—as if she held all the answers behind those bright, untarnished blue eyes. He swallowed, trying not to wince when his throat sent aching tremors down to his stomach. "What… what's your name?"

"Olivia," the girl chirped. She sat back just like Matthew had, stretching her legs out and picking the pebbles out of her palms. "But my mom calls me Ollie." She finished ridding her hands of debris and wiped them on her knees. They left smears of red in their wake.

Matthew opened his mouth to ask about her mother, but he thought better of it and said, "Are you okay?"

Ollie nodded. "Yup. But." And she pointed.

Matthew didn't want to turn around, but he knew he had to.

A towering wall of rubble threw yard-long shadows across the floor, snuffing out the small shaft of light that peeked in from the narrow gap in what was once the curved ceiling. Streams of gray brightness trickled over a sliver of the pile, but it was enough. Hands, arms, elbows, legs, feet, joints sickeningly twisted under the weight of the demolished tunnel. When his gaze fell over a head, the eyes blood-filled and bulging, he couldn't help it. He threw up.

"Mister, Mister." Ollie was shaking Matthew violently by the shoulder as he brought up what little food he had in his stomach along with burning bile. "Are you okay, Mister? Wow, you're really sick."

"Y-yeah," Matthew rasped, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. His throat convulsed, but he turned away from the wall before he could find another reason to retch. "Um…" He pushed himself to his feet, wobbling a bit, studying those who had managed to survive the rock fall. A middle-aged, gray-haired woman nursing a crushed hand. Two twenty-somethings sitting close together, one sobbing, the other trying to calm her. The little girl, no more than five, wailing and tugging on the hand peeking out from beneath that large slab of concrete. And, of course, bright-eyed Ollie, who seemed to be fresh out of elementary school. Five. Five refugees out of twenty. And that young girl with the baby who seemed to see right through him was nowhere to be found. Matthew felt his throat convulse again.

Ollie was staring up at him, rocking on her heels. "Yeah. They're pretty banged up, aren't they?"

Matthew swallowed and said, "Mm. Well… we need to get everyone together and out of here. Organization men will find us, and that rock wall looks pretty unsteady." He moved into crouch but soon realized, courtesy of a sharp pang in his lower back, that doing so would not be pleasant. Instead, he looked down at Ollie, forcing a smile. "Could you help me do that?"

"Yeah huh!" Ollie chirped before skipping off to see to the girl crying beside the rock.

Matthew made his way over to the older woman sitting with her back against what was left of the tunnel wall, hating the way he limped and how every muscle in him ached. He felt helpless, however unscathed he was compared to everyone else. When did everything go so wrong?

"How are you doing?" he asked as he approached. The woman looked up and a flicker of surprise sparked behind her eyes.

"I thought… you looked dead." She shifted where she sat, cradling her hand more comfortably against her chest. Up close, Matthew could see that she was burned and bruised—but not nearly as badly as Ollie.

"I could have been," Matthew said, leaning down and extending his hand to her. "Come on. I'm sorry to say, but we need to move. These tunnels are crawling with Organization troops and those explosions could easily cause another collapse."

The woman sighed and shook her head, turning it in the direction of Ollie, who was trying to tug the crying girl away from the concrete from beneath which peeked a hand. "Look at this mess. How are we going to come back from this? That poor girl. She won't know anything but war and death. She'll remember that rock fall as long as she lives. That was her aunt under there. She took her in after her parents died. Now she has no one." The woman pulled her eyes back to meet Matthew's own. "Sometimes I wonder how many more orphans will be made before this is over."

Matthew stared, unable to form words for a moment, or at least meaningful words. Guilt gnawed at his belly and he swallowed the bile searing up his raw throat. Then he said, "This _will_ be over. I swear, if it takes every ounce of strength I have left in my body, I will end this for you." He lowered his eyes as the girl behind him let out another heartbreaking wail. "For her. She will remember this day for the rock fall that killed her aunt, but she will also remember this day as the day we took our world back. For now, though, will you take care of her?"

The woman peered up at him, blinking her brown eyes. The depth of the wrinkles on her face made her look older than Matthew had predicted. Then she took his hand, allowing Matthew to draw her to her feet. She stared at him for a long minute, as if scrutinizing his worth. "You swore," was all she said before she shuffled off to help Ollie with the crying girl.

Matthew then directed his attention to the two older girls clinging to each other a few feet away. He hobbled over to them and had barely gotten out, "Hey, I'm sorry, but—" before the thunderous echo of several feet running through the tunnel behind them reached his ears.

He had his rifle out before he could think, aiming it at the intact part of the tunnel, which stretched away into darkness. Forms began to manifest out of the gloom, only their exposed flesh visible beneath pitch black uniforms. At first, Matthew's heart soared, believing them to be Resistance fighters. But when he saw the spiral insignia on their breasts, the red letters, saw the empty look in their eyes, he knew.

The soldiers saw them, stopped, aimed. The girl behind him stopped wailing, and one of the young woman screamed. Someone must have tried to move out of the line of fire, as one of the soldiers shouted, "Stay where you are!" and shifted his aim to accommodate.

Matthew, meanwhile, was all that stood between innocents and the soldiers. Him and however much ammo he had left.

"Well?" one soldier sneered. There were an odd dozen scattered around him, blocking their only escape route. "Go on. Shoot. But for every bullet you spend, we'll give your girls two."

Matthew was shaking, and it was more than obvious with the way he held his rifle. But it was more out of anger than fear. If he had the power, he would gun down every one of the bastards that stood in their way. But there was only one of him and only so many bullets. Clenching his teeth in frustration, Matthew reluctantly dropped his weapon.

The lead soldier grinned wolfishly. "Good." He nodded in the direction of the refugees behind the Canadian. "Tie 'em up. And someone shut that bitch up."

"Heh, or we can give the bitch something to scream about," another said, walking past Matthew without sparing him so much as a glance, as if he was a harmless insect he couldn't be bothered to swat. Matthew's hands balled into fists, his conscience the only thing keeping him from turning around and laying the man out. All he could do was stand there, staring straight ahead, absolutely seething at the sound of the soldier beating the girl, the man laughing as she continued to sob.

The lead soldier approached Matthew as his comrades moved to take the refugees captive once more, pressing the barrel of his Beretta M9 to the Canadian's temple. " _Tch_ , didn't I tell you to keep that cunt quiet?"

There were consecutive _whump_ s that Matthew came to recognize as kicks. "What can I say, boss? She's a fuckin' screamer." He gave another nasty guffaw and dealt the girl another kick, this one producing an alarming _crack_. Matthew stiffened as the soldier stopped laughing abruptly.

"Well, don't fucking kill her!"

"She's not dead," the soldier said. "Just can't take a fucking hit. Being a fuckin' tramp is all she's good for." And he spit on her.

The girl's friend snapped. "Don't you fucking spit on her, you fucking pig!"

She must have lunged, because the next second the soldier was shouting, "Someone get this fucking crazy bitch off me! _Fuck_!"

Matthew could hear the soldiers rushing to restrain the girl, the lead soldier standing before him watching with perverse intrigue as more _whump_ s followed. Matthew's nails dug into his palms, and his jaw ached from how hard he was grinding his teeth together. He managed to unfurl one of his fists and inch his fingers up to his waist. He kept his eyes unblinkingly forward, hand trembling when it touched the sheath of his knife. He tried to keep his breathing even, but his lungs were too weak to quell the worst of it. _This is it,_ Matthew thought. His fingers curled around the hilt of his knife and refused to move any further. _What am I doing? I'm just one person. I can't… do anything._ His fingers loosened and his hand slipped downward. Down to his side, where it would be absolutely useless. Just like the rest of him.

The kicking continued behind him, along with the occasional gasping grunt or cry that escaped the girl with every blow. The little girl was crying and the older woman was trying to soothe her. Then the kicking just… stopped.

"Damn, man, what did you do to her?"

" _I_ did it? You dumbasses were beating her too!"

"Whoa, dude, her head is bleeding!"

"Weak-ass cunt. Deserved every fuckin' bit of it."

 _"You swore."_ The words echoed through Matthew's head, sharp and more painful than anything Matthew had ever felt. His fingers twitched and returned to his waist. _I swore._ He swore to fix this. Everything. And it started here.

He couldn't best them. But he could sure as hell distract them.

_"Aghh! Sonofabitch!"_

The next thing Matthew knew, he was flying backward, grasping at air. He landed on his back with enough force to take his breath away, a spike up pain bulleting up his spine and stunning his muscles to the point of paralysis. He gave a harsh cry and his vision flickered for a moment, but he possessed enough coherency to distinguish the silvery glint of the knife jutting out of the lead soldier's hip. Matthew could still feel the ridges of the man's knuckles against his jaw. The ache seemed to grow worse with every second the lead soldier stared him down, those corpse eyes slicing through him like shards of ice.

Then the man smiled nastily. "Your aim sucks. Unfortunate." He took the hilt of the knife in his hand and pulled. Matthew couldn't help a wince as the blade exited slowly, leaving a dark gash from which red bloomed. That smile twitched grotesquely wider. "Let me show you how it's done." He motioned to one of his men, and the back of Matthew's head exploded with pain. Black bled into his vision and his ears rang, sending painful jabs to his brain. It sounded suspiciously like wailing.

* * *

 _I meant to miss,_ was the first thing Matthew thought when he came to. His head was pounding and his eyes were so sore it took great effort to open them. His senses slowly returned to him, and he was soon hunched over, whole body aching as if he'd been dragged for miles over hard, rocky ground. His back hurt like hell where the steel rod had hit him in the rock fall, and he attempted to raise a hand to soothe it. A slight burning and an itchy brush of loose bristles was enough to tell him that his wrists had been bound.

_Shit._

"Well, it looks like someone's up."

Matthew snapped his head around to see a lone soldier regarding him a bit too cheerily, trying not to grimace from the sting that shot up his neck from the sudden movement. Unwilling to allow the man to see how much pain he was in, Matthew's eyes trailed downward, stopping at the large blot of blood near the soldier's left hip. The wound was bandaged but still bleeding enough to soak through. How long had Matthew been unconscious?

A hand covered the wound, and the Canadian's eyes returned to the soldier's face, split once more with that insane grin. "Saw your little scratch? It was pretty bloody, I can give you that, but it won't do much good with you all tied up. Now you get to sit here and wallow in your shitty shank job."

Matthew's fingers clenched behind his back. _I_ meant _to miss,_ he wanted to say, but he knew that would get him nowhere. _I could have killed you._ Regret bubbled inside him and he was almost tempted to spit in the grinning fucker's face, but then he heard sniffling from across the tunnel, turned his head to see what had become of his survivors, and remembered why he had spared the monster that sat sneering beside him. _The Overlord really does take your brain, doesn't he? If I'd killed you, do you think your cronies would have hesitated killing everyone I wanted to save?_ He watched two soldiers take turns pressing their weapons to the youngest girl, snickering.

"And what's this, little bitch?"

"M-my, my, my—"

The man pulled the crying girl's hair, and she shrieked as the barrel of his gun was pushed further into her. "Spit it the fuck out, you sniveling little cunt, before I blow the fucker off!"

"I-it's—my l-leg!"

The soldier released her and scoffed when she fell to her side, sobbing and burying her face in her hands. "Fuck, didn't your mother ever teach you body parts? Dumbassed little shit."

If a glare could kill, Matthew's would have burned the soldiers alive. _You'd kill her too, wouldn't you? You bastards would kill a helpless, crying little girl like she wasn't anything more than an annoyance. If I could, I would carve up every last one of—_

"Her mother couldn't teach her that stuff. 'Cause you guys killed her!"

Matthew's eyes snapped to Ollie—burned, scarred, bruised little Ollie, with her teeth clenched and her tiny fists eager to strike from where they were bound behind her back. One of the soldiers who had been torturing the little girl turned to her, twirling his gun recklessly, nonchalantly, around in his hand.

"What did you say, you fucking smart mouth?"

Ollie screwed up her face further and began, "I said you—"

"Ollie, stop!" Matthew called and the weight of all those eyes on him made his bones ache. "D-don't say anymore, Ollie. Please. I'll take care of this." _I swore._ His gaze locked with the older woman's, and it was as if she could hear the words knocking around in his skull.

The soldier beside him laughed. "You'll _take care_ of this? That's rich!" Matthew felt something heavy and cold settle on his shoulder, and a few long seconds passed before he could discern that what he was feeling was a hand. A cold, dead, unfeeling hand. And just as frigid breath. "I know who you are, _Canada_. Meek, little Canada who can barely speak up nonetheless _take care_ of anything even remotely intimidating without pissing himself. So, go on. Tell me you're sorry for that weak-ass outburst of yours. Come on. Go ahead and apologize just like you always do. Let's hear it, Mattie."

Matthew's head snapped around to glare, face so close to the soldier's that he could smell his rotten breath. "Don't call me that."

The man's eyebrows rose into his sweaty fringe. "Oh? And why the hell not?"

"Only my brother's allowed to call me that."

"Is that so?" The soldier leaned in, their noses brushing. "Let me tell you something, pussy-assed bitch. _I_ make the rules and I can call you whatever the fuck I want. You're helpless here, but I thought you'd know that with how often you've been in such a position. So why don't you shut your mouth about your dumbfuck of a brother before I knock your ass out again? It's not like he'll be around to call you that after this anyway. See, I'm doing you a favor, canuck bitch. I'll be taking over for your brother after his skull's cracked open by the Overlord. I've seen him do it, you know. Just like an egg, every time. He'll scream. Probably for you." Matthew turned away and lowered his head, unable to imagine Alfred with the soldier's empty eyes instead of his own bright, lively ones. Dead lips brushed his ear. He stiffened. "Can you hear him?" the man continued, his voice taking on a greasy edge, sliding over his ear, like slime. "Can you hear him calling for you as his brain is smeared across the floor?"

Matthew was seething with rage, on the precipice and staring down into a burning hot pit of wrath and hatred. He entertained a plot to headbutt the soldier's teeth out of his skull, but he felt those cold lips curve upward against the shell of his ear, and he remembered.

_"This is how it should be."_

_"Huh? What are you talking about? … And hold still. It's hard to wrap the bandage when you're squirming like that."_

Matthew could see his face, even after all the years that had passed. Centuries had flown by, but the round shape of it, with puffy, pouty cheeks and a little nose that was perpetually smudged with something-or-other—it always stuck with him. The only things that hadn't changed were his eyes. Bright, and just a bit too curious for his own good.

_"Well, I go off and fight, and then I come back and you patch me up!"_

_"You don't_ have _to go off and fight. And it's not like I_ like _taking care of you. You're very disruptive sometimes…"_

He was ignored, as he most often was, and Matthew suddenly couldn't imagine how he could have ever been annoyed by it.

_"Yeah. I march off to battle and get all beat up, but I don't have to worry, 'cause you'll be ready to fix me."_

_"The only battles you're fighting are with the rabbits in your garden."_

_"Hey! They eat up all the vegetables and Artie says it's my job to keep them away. And they bite_ and _scratch!"_

_"Sure. Why don't you just get a dog and have it chase them off so you don't have to?"_

_"'Cause it's awesome! You wouldn't understand 'cause all you do is sit inside and read and brush dumb France's hair and wrap bandages around me when I need 'em."_

_"I… I can too fight! I can fight just as well as you!"_

_"Oh yeah? Well, where are your battle scars, then? You're not a real fighter unless you have some cool-looking battle scars."_

_"I… well… it's just that I'm so good at fighting that I don't have any scars!"_

_"Pfft, whatever."_

_"I'm serious!"_

_"Yeah. Just go back to patching me up. I like you better that way."_

_"Jerk…"_

_"… Mattie?"_

_"What?"_

_"I don't want you chasing those rabbits."_

_"Why, so you can continue being stupid chasing after them yourself?"_

_"No. I just don't want you to get hurt."_

_"You think I can't handle pain?"_

_"Just don't do it, 'kay? It's my job."_

_"Oh, and it's my job to tend to you afterward."_

_"That's right."_ Matthew now knew why this image of Alfred was so vividly imprinted in his mind. He could not recall a time before then when the boy had looked so determined. That expression would become as much a part of him as that cowlick Matthew had thought about snipping off as a child whenever Alfred made him angry. He had been too scared to do it, though. He was afraid it would make Alfred cry. _"My job is to go off and get myself hurt, and you're supposed to be there when I get back to take care of me."_

 _"B-but I don't think I can take care of you_ all _the time…"_

_"I don't want that to change about us. I know I'm gonna grow up and do amazing things, and I'll probably be hurt real bad. But I want you to make sure I get better."_

_"But England takes care of you just like France takes care of me. They'll make sure nothing bad happens to us. You won't have the chance to get hurt."_

_"Mattie, just hear me out, 'kay? I'm the hero and you're my little brother. I'm supposed to protect you. That's the rule."_

_"A rule from what?"_

_"Artie… before he leaves… doesn't matter. But you can't change, got that? You're not allowed to."_

_"I-I can't help it if I change, Al…"_

_"Don't. I'll miss you a lot. I won't be able to call you Mattie anymore either."_

_"Why not?"_

_" 'Cause Mattie doesn't fight. He isn't mean. He doesn't get all scratched up 'cause of those stupid rabbits. He likes to fix people, not break them."_ A smile. Such a big, goofy, over-wide smile that always spoiled the moment. _"So you better not change, or I'll kick your ass!"_

_"I-I'll try… and I'm older than you, Al."_

_"Well, I'm the hero, and heroes are always the big brother."_

_"That doesn't make sense."_

_"You don't understand 'cause you're not a hero."_

_"How can I when I'm not allowed to be one?"_

_"That's the_ point _!"_

Matthew's lips twitched into a smile for a moment as the memory faded. He could still feel the soldier close to him, breathing down his neck, icy lips against his ear, but that hardly bothered him now. All those vile words had lost their sting as well, sinking to the back of his mind, barely casting a shadow. Because he wouldn't stoop so low as to bend to the man's wishes. He wouldn't become a monster like him and his comrades. He was Matthew—he was _Canada_ —and he was supposed to be there to fix Alfred when he came home. And he would come home. Alfred always came home, just like Matthew was always there. This soldier, he would never understand that. He felt sorry for him.

_I'll fight this my way and no one else's._

_No one else can be Canada. That's my job, and I won't let him take that away from me._

It was hard. The girl continued to sob, and all Matthew could do was look the soldier in the eye and say, "I'm sorry that there are people like you."

The soldier blinked and furrowed his brow, unsure of how to respond. Then he snatched up a clump of Matthew's matted hair, pulling so hard his scalp burned. But Matthew stared into those cold eyes, unwilling to let him win.

The soldier licked his lips, and Matthew half expected to see a forked tongue. "Those whores will go back to where they belong, and when they leave I'll cut you open and strangle you with your own guts." His sour breath puffed in Matthew's face, almost suffocating. "Hell, I might even let the littlest bitch stay and watch. Still needs to learn her body parts."

The soldier's words boiled his blood, but Matthew didn't waver in his stare. The man held his gaze a little longer before he wrenched his fingers from the Canadian's hair, scoffing as Matthew's head cracked back against the pile of rock he was leaning against. Matthew grunted and watched the soldier stand, motioning to his men. "Take the cunts away, but leave the whiny—" He paused and listened, the others following suit. Voices found their way to their end of the tunnel, high, roaring voices that strengthened as their owners approached. The youngest girl succumbed to quiet whimpers.

"Deceiver pigs," the soldier closest to the racket announced.

The lead soldier's hand shot over his shoulder, fingers curling around the butt of his semiautomatic. " _Tch_. Thought we killed all the fuckers." He flashed Matthew a dangerous look. "Move, and she gets a bullet for every inch you move from that spot." The soldier motioned with the barrel of his weapon to the five-year-old who sat quivering and paralyzed. Then he gestured for his men to follow him down the tunnel.

The girl burst into tears at the sound of gunshots ricocheting off the walls, but Matthew couldn't console her. He was busy sawing through his bonds with the sharp edge of rock he had managed to feel out. Something cold and soft was brushing against his hands as he moved them over the jagged concrete, but he couldn't be bothered with that either. He leaned his head back, biting his lip almost in half as he counted each wiry strand that snapped.

_One more, come on, one more…_

The rope fell away and he sucked in a breath. He looked up and realized that the captives had been watching him. He couldn't bear to meet any of their eyes, especially that little girl's. Guiltily, he snatched up the knife the soldier had pulled from his body and walked over to the captives. One by one, he freed each of them, taking the rope he got from around their wrists.

"Listen to me," he spoke to his knees, braiding the rope together, "when you hear a close explosion, run. Don't stop and ask questions and definitely don't come back. Just run, and don't get caught, okay?"

A stretch of silence passed between them, filled with echoes of gunfire and death wails. Then one of the older girls asked, "What… what are you going to do?"

Matthew finished knotting the rope together and pulled it bracingly, testing its strength. It would do. "I'm going to give you time."

He didn't give them any more time to question. He pulled himself to his feet and staggered as black spots swelled across his vision. His hand shot out to steady himself, hunched over and blinking to clear his eyesight, feeling like his lungs had been squeezed flat when he saw what he had been touching with his back against the wall of tumbled rock. His mouth began to water with an impending retch and he clapped his other hand to his mouth.

 _Rope._ The word shot through his mind like a bullet. He forced himself to bend at the waist and reach past the mangled hand dangling down from between the crags, fingers broken and twisted, the few nails that remained blackened and torn. Matthew held his breath and took the rope in hand, his stomach churning at the sight of blood smeared over the braids from the chalk-white fingers curling out of the pile. He rose to his full height, only then realizing how pitifully small he was next to the wall of shattered concrete. He stretched the entire length of the rope between his hands and wondered just how crazy he had become. Bile crept up his throat as he surveyed the wall, eyes skipping over flesh and shocks of dark red that dotted the expanse as best he could manage. _Sanity is just two letters short of insanity,_ he conceded and found what he was looking for.

He made sure he remembered the spot on the wall as his eyes lowered to the floor. _Come on,_ he urged the gray stretch of scattered debris and dark whorls of red that formed the shadows of what used to be _there._ _Give me something. Anything._

'Anything' came in the form of a heart-shaped gold locket that had caught his eye as it lay half covered in dust, winking as a finger of light bounced off of it. He had it in his hand without recalling having bent down, running the chain through his fingers and weaving the tattered rope through it. He made the tightest knot he could manage and twirled the rope above his head for a moment, giving it a few test launches to see how far the weight of the locket would take it. He could feel the eyes of the captives brushing over his skin as he worked, but most prominent and piercing were the dead eyes of those buried beneath the rocky mound or strewn, limp and puppet-like, across the floor. The locket suddenly became very heavy and he reeled the rope back in, lifting his gaze to the hole he'd previously located in the rock wall not too far from the bottom.

 _Come on, Canada. You've been hunting for centuries. There's no way you can't do this._ Matthew took a deep breath, feeling his lungs ache as he exhaled shakily. _You can do this. You_ have _to do this._ He ran a dry tongue over his parched lips and positioned himself below the hole, which lay a few feet above his head. After a few more adjustments, he flung the rope and locket above his head, gave it a few twirls, and swung it toward the gap.

He held his breath, but it missed, the locket clinking off one of the rocks surrounding it. Quickly, he pulled it back and twirled it again, tossed it. Again, it missed. Each gunshot sounding down the tunnel behind seemed to coincide with his rapid heartbeat. Minutes ticked by, but it was as if with every toss the hole seemed to shrink smaller and smaller. Gritting his teeth, Matthew whirled the rope with all his might, his back screaming, and launched the rope as hard as he could at the gap once again.

The muscles in his right arm convulsed on the upswing, and he nearly lost his footing. He huffed as he groped for the tail of the rope, the haphazardly braided lifeline slipping from his hands for one breathless, stupid moment. _Damn!_

But just as soon air was rushing out of his lungs in a disbelieving laugh, and he gave a triumphant _"Yes!"_ as he watched the locket shoot through the hole, pulling the rope along with it. The _tink_ of it hitting the floor on the other side echoed louder than even the gunshots at his back. Now all he could do was finish the job and hope against hope that his logic hadn't fled with his luck.

All the while, the captives had remained silent, clearly aware that what he was doing was too important to interrupt. Their growing presence made his lungs constrict with the weight of his mission. They had been through more than he could ever imagine. The least he could do was get this right.

But he needed something else, and, scanning the entirety of the tunnel in one sweep, he only then realized how difficult it would be to obtain it.

For a moment—a desperate, choking, insane moment—he thought that all of his efforts were for naught, and that he would have to come to terms with the fact that he would be tortured and killed to the cries of that little girl he wanted so much to save but _couldn't_ , how was it even _possible_ … and then the light streaming in from the sliver of sky carved in the shattered concrete overhead flashed, the clouds parting for just an instance to allow a shaft of sunlight into their otherwise dark prison. But it was enough.

Matthew whipped around, a flicker of amusement trickling through him at the sight of the captives jumping back, as if expecting him to launch into some sort of psychotic rant to explain all of the anxious activities he had been engaged in for the past five minutes. It was weird to indulge in such an emotion, so far out of reach for so long that it felt almost foreign and wrong. But he pushed the feeling away and fixed his eyes to Ollie. "My glasses—Ollie, you said you might have seen them earlier."

Ollie immediately perked up, so eager to move from her spot but smart enough to know that doing so could be detrimental to whatever half-baked plan she thought Matthew must have been carrying out. God bless her unusually acute perception. "Yeah! They're by that big rock over there. The one with the…" Her eyes darted to the youngest over her group before nodding to indicate her specified location.

Matthew followed her gesture to the large slab of concrete across the floor. Matthew rushed over to it, noticing too late the hand that peeked out from beneath it. His heart plunged.

His glasses lay a foot or so away and he snatched them up, guilt churning within him as he turned his back on something so preciously tragic. He examined the spectacles for a moment; the frame had snapped, the bridge holding it all together, swinging, shorn almost in two. But what Matthew was truly concerned with were the lenses. His fingers trembled when he found the first one that he studied was shattered. The second one, however, was cracked but for the most part intact.

 _Yes!_ Matthew ran back over to where the tail end of the rope hung down from the gap he had tossed it through. But he had only just grabbed it when he realized that he could no longer hear gunfire.

His heart shot up to his throat as he slid back to the spot where the soldiers had left him, making some last-minute adjustments to be sure that the scene was just as convincing as before with seconds to spare.

"No need to fear," one soldier chortled, strutting in covered in blood and soot, though Matthew saw no wounds on him, "we fed the rebel shits plenty of lead. They were ravenous for it."

More overloud guffaws, unnecessary brandishing of weapons, and venomous threats followed, but Matthew had his eyes pinned to a patch of floor in front of him. He knew that such a situation was dire, but he had always been a bad liar. As brainless as the brutes seemed to be, if just one of them possessed enough of the Overlord's senses they would surely see that the Canadian was suspiciously flushed and wide-eyed and supremely different from when they had last seen him. Matthew fought the urge to chew his lower lip as his trembling fingers grazed against a sharp edge on one of the broken lenses behind his back.

At the crest of his vision he saw the men hauling the captives to their feet, shoving and kicking until the young woman who had previously been knocked out settled into an unsteady stance. With a wave at their leader and a few more boorish swears, they made an especially rough show of pushing the women and girls down the tunnel they had just painted with Resister blood, barrels jabbing at the youngest one's head when she fell behind. They were too busy degrading them and too stupid to see that all that was keeping the captives' hands behind their backs was their own free will. Matthew could feel Ollie's eyes trained on him until she rounded the corner out of sight, but he refused himself the comfort of reassuring her. He couldn't risk it. Not when all of their lives hung by a thread quite literally.

"Ah," the lead soldier sighed, plopping down beside him. He smelled of blood and dirt and sweat and corpses. "That little one's aunt was a perfect little slut. She'll grow up to fill her shoes someday. Maybe sooner than later." When his words failed to elicit a reaction from Matthew, he pulled out his glock and loaded it. He did it slowly, removing the cartridge that seemed not even halfway empty and replacing it with a fresh, full one. It was all for show, and the soldier saw fit to address that. "Gonna use every last one of 'em. Nothing less than a piece of shit like you deserves." He locked the magazine in place and cocked the weapon more loudly than needed. Matthew couldn't smother a flinch. The soldier smiled nastily. "Hmm, where should I shoot you first? Can't be in the head. Nah, that would end everything too soon." Matthew hoped the man didn't see him swallow when the gun was pressed to his shoulder. "Here? No, how about here?" The barrel slid down to his thigh. "Or how about here?" It took everything Matthew had not to jump five feet in the air and reveal that he was no longer tied up like he was supposed to be. The gun was now digging into his crotch ominously. Although Matthew's gaze hadn't shifted once from the floor in front of him, he could see the corner of the soldier's lips twitch upward. "That'd be good. Canada with his balls shot off. That is, if you have any left to shoot." The gun lifted from Matthew's lap, and the Canadian let out a slow breath of relief. The soldier sat back and waved the gun casually around in his hand, always making sure it was pointed right at him. Matthew could hear his finger tapping the trigger. "No… you know what? I have a better idea." Matthew didn't like the glee that crept into the soldier's voice, but it wasn't as if he could do anything about it. He just prayed that the man would be too busy toying with him to remain unaware of the rope dangling down the rocks feet behind him. If he happened to see it, Matthew could very well be in for torture far worse than what the soldier had originally intended.

The soldier's next words made him remember that unless the man left for a minute at least, Matthew was no closer to escape than he was tied up. "I'll fuck you with it. Good and hard. I'll make you bleed, and I bet you'll get hard, you little fag. I'll fuck you up the ass with my gun and slice off your dick while I make you moan for more. Then I'll plant a whole cartridge of lead in your gut and stuff your prick into mouth as you lay with your insides blown across the floor. Although, I'd better be careful. No doubt your cock is as small and pathetic as you. You might end up accidentally swallowing it. Wouldn't want you choking on your own junk before you can watch yourself bleed out."

Matthew suddenly felt very hollow, as if his insides had been scooped out and placed before him to see. _Please, don't let him see. Don't let him see,_ please. Matthew couldn't fathom a worse death, but he didn't want to give the soldier any more excuse to probe his imagination for something even more horrific.

"You're lucky I let that girl go," the soldier went on. "Didn't want the bitch crying all the way back to her cage. Besides, she'll have plenty of time to learn what fucking is, and you'd be a poor example. Her aunt would have been a better teacher, but seeing as she's dead…" Matthew crushed his thumb into a broken shard of the lens, trying to stem his anger. His emotions must have risen to his face, because the soldier began to laugh. "Eager to begin, are we? Well, I'll have to find something sharp to remove your cock with. Can't do with something dull—takes too long, and I want you to be awake for the whole thing. It'll be fantastic. Like nothing you've ever felt. Guaranteed. In fact, that knife you stuck in me felt sharp enough for the job. Now, where the fuck did I leave it…?"

Matthew's heart thudded against his ribs and his stomach did sickening backflips. He had used the knife to cut the captives free. And it was now laying far from where the soldier had left it.

"Ah, there it is." Matthew stiffened and lifted his head just a bit to see the soldier stand and cross the tunnel, stooping to pick up the knife. "Hunh, coulda sworn I dropped you over—"

The man suddenly jerked rigidly upright, head snapping toward the dark end of the tunnel. He stared for a long moment, and Matthew held his breath. Then the soldier pocketed the knife and with an oily, "I'll be back," slipped away down the tunnel.

Matthew watched the darkness swallow him and waited longer still before he leaped to his feet and ran over to the rope. He brought his glasses in front of him, almost dropping them in his haste. His breathing seemed unbearably loud despite forcing himself to take shallow breaths, and he was sure his heartbeat could be heard echoing down the tunnel. But he clenched his teeth and angled the one remaining lens over the frayed end of rope without pause, holding his wrist with his other hand to keep himself from shaking so much.

 _Come on, catch, catch,_ he urged. He could hear the soldier's footsteps approaching, he _knew_ he was coming…

The clouds shifted, the sun emerged for a second, but it was all that was needed. The lens glinted and the end of the rope began to smoke. Matthew removed the lens from over top of the rope and blew until the rope lit up like a taper. Then all he could do was back away and watch the flame slowly make its way up the braids, praying that a sudden breeze didn't extinguish it before it reached the end.

The flame had just disappeared through the gap when Matthew heard boot soles scrape over concrete behind him. He froze.

"Little bitch. How in the fuck did you get free? When this shit is over, I'm gonna— _what the fuck_?"

Matthew didn't want to do it, but he turned. He turned and saw the soldier standing a yard away, glaring daggers, face flushed a dangerous red. And, with her hair balled up in the man's giant fist, was Ollie, eyes bright as ever.

 _What were you_ thinking _?_ Matthew wanted to shout at her, but the soldier shoved Ollie so hard she fell onto her side, and then he charged toward him. The Canadian didn't know what to do. He was cornered, his back against a pile of rubble, with nothing but a pair of broken glasses to defend himself with.

 _Oh God._ He had seen it. The soldier had seen the rope, and a spark of confusion crossed is face for only a second before he had a fistful of Matthew's collar, wringing him viciously and knocking his head against jags of rock.

_"You—sneaky—little—shit—I'm—gonna—smear—your—ass—"_

"You get away from him!" Ollie shouted, pushing herself to her feet. She took a few running steps toward them, waving her hands and scrunching up her round face in anger. Her expression looked so similar to someone Matthew knew, it was almost scarier than being strangled. _"Get away! Get away, you monster!"_

"Ollie, no!" Matthew yelled, gagging as the soldier dropped him just long enough to punch him in the gut, then snatched him up by the throat once more. "G-get away. Ollie—run!"

Ollie stared, fists shaking at her side. She didn't move an inch. " _No_! I'm tired of this happening to people. I wanna kill him! Bad guys are _supposed_ to die! I'll—"

 _"Ollie, NOW!"_ Matthew screamed as loud as his strained lungs would allow. The soldier took a chunk of his hair and used it to smash the back of Matthew's head into the rock, again, again, again—

But Ollie was no longer there. She was gone, running back down the tunnel like Matthew wanted her to. There must have been something in his voice that had driven her—or the smoky smell now wafting from the gap overhead.

Matthew grunted as the soldier punched him in the jaw and shoved him up against the wall, a crag of concrete stabbing Matthew in his aching lower back. Matthew would have screamed if he'd had the breath.

The soldier thrust his sneering face into his. Matthew couldn't breathe. The man's breath was all he could take in. It was like breathing gas fumes. "You chickenshit motherfucker. I'll beat your ass against these rocks till your bones are so broken you can't even _stand_!"

The soldier picked him up by his shoulders and threw him against the wall, but that was as far as he got. There was a rumble, then an earsplitting blast that threw them backward. Matthew tumbled across the floor, muscles flaring with pain from the beating, too exhausted to do much more than grasp feebly at anything he thought was heavy enough to anchor him. His fingers found a boulder, but he couldn't hold onto it for long. Another rock, dislodged by the blast, came flying toward him. Matthew couldn't dodge it. He could only turn and avoid getting hit in the gut. It caught his arm instead, and he screamed as he felt the bones snap. The projectile knocked him across the floor, and he slammed into another large slab of stone so hard that his ears ring to the point that he was sure his head would split open from the sound. He was pinned to the rock, splayed and too weak to move against the roll of heat and pressure that was rushing toward him, carrying with it fire and smoke and more crashing rocks. Matthew cried out when he felt flames lick his side, burning up his black uniform like it was nothing more than tissue paper. But his voice was lost among the deafening roar of the explosion, sending more and more of what used to be the wall of rubble rocketing toward him until he was buried up to his legs in rock—his waist—his chest—

Something white-hot collided with his temple, making him see stars. Matthew snatched the object off of him before it could melt his skin, holding it in his hands and, with the sight of it, not caring if his palms were aflame with heat.

It was the locket. Worn, black in some areas, dented, and most definitely misshapen by fire, but still there. It even had a bit of rope still attached to it.

The job was done, and the locket had helped. The weight of it had carried the rope and the fire that had traveled along it to an inactivated defense just beyond the wall of cascading rock that Matthew had noticed earlier. He had done it. He hoped the captives remembered what he'd said about running.

Rubble closed in on him at all sides, crushing his limbs and cramping his body. But he couldn't feel anything anymore. When at last the rocks stopped flying and they tottered to a halt over his head, plunging him into stuffy darkness, Matthew indulged in the fragile quiet of it all. He peeled the now cool locket off his burned chest and squinted at it through the dark, swearing that he could see light bouncing off its ruined, beautiful surface. Because there was a certain brightness about the thing, still present even after having been through so much. Bright—like someone he knew.

* * *

No translations

A Word From the Writer: Wow, this chapter turned out longer than I wanted it to. But whatever. At least it's up... _finally_. And it ends with Canada being crushed-again. Surprise!

So, I apologize again for the delay. Things have been complicated lately and I haven't gotten around to adding to this. My aunt finally left but had us babysit her kids (both under the age of 2) until she moved in, which was a week-long affair I never want to repeat. _Ever_. After that I visited a therapist (since some weird shit has been going on) and found out I have Social Anxiety Disorder with some OCD, which explains a lot. It also means that I'm getting so anxious about stuff that it's hard for me to sit and focus on one thing without thinking about _what if_ this and _what if_ that. It's very frustrating, and who knows what else I might have. I only saw the shrink once. It's very likely that I might be bipolar too, seeing as both my mother and grandmother are. Hell, it wouldn't surprise me. But now I'm on meds and feel a bit better, but I'm still working stuff out. Whatever it takes, though, I'll finish this fic. It's my baby, and I simply won't abandon it no matter how much my brain craps out.

*A note about the poem at the beginning. It's one of my favorite poems from WWI. I discovered it freshman year when I had to write a research paper on WWI or WWII poets and loved it. I didn't want to go the usual route with Wilfred Owen. But goddamn if I don't make things difficult for myself. You don't know how fricken' hard it was to find him in print. Hard to research a poet who only wrote one poem, but whatever. Liked the poem and I wasn't giving up on it. Somehow scored high, though, so sweating bullets over the research was worth it. Kinda.

I think it'll be easier to write now that I've cleared the POV hurtles. I mean, there are more to come, but these ones will be combined and form a sort of finale. We're standing at the edge people. This is it. Next chapter will probably be monstrously long and a pain in the ass to write, but I can't wait to start it, finish it, and post it. America, England, and Italy are next. Three for one. What a deal! X3


	123. Morituri et Salutant

**Hallelujah, this chapter is DONE.**

Warning: Violence, threats, mental torture, gore, weapons, sensitive material, character death.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

* * *

_"Long is the way, and hard, that out of hell leads up to light."_

—John Milton, _Paradise Lost_

**Morituri te Salutant**

"Nnn, shit…"

Arthur opened his eyes into the blackness that had swallowed him. He lay there for a moment, taking in the miraculous fact that he could breathe. He attempted to move, but the instant he flexed his muscles, pain ignited his nerves. He went limp once again, panting. _Bloody hell._ It felt like he had taken a tumble down a rocky mountainside and hit every outcropping along the way.

It was then that he remembered the little girl he had promised to get back to her mother and forced himself onto his elbows with clenched teeth. "Little girl, are you all right?" he called breathlessly. His lungs were still recovering from the fall, which meant that he hadn't been unconscious for too long. Although he wasn't quite sure whether or not that was something he should be grateful for. He could have done with postponing the inevitable for just a _bit_ longer.

"Hello? Little girl?" Just as Arthur was reflecting on how he should have asked for her name earlier, his eyes settled on a crumpled form sprawled a few feet from him across the floor. His heart plummeted.

"I'm sorry." Arthur dragged himself over to her, ignoring the ache that pervaded his body. He reached out and took her hand in his. It looked so tiny and promising. "I'm sorry this had to happen to you." _Another promise broken,_ Arthur mused. He observed the girl's broken body, the black pool rippling beneath her that couldn't be anything but blood. He knew he should be crying, should feel sick and breathless and, fuck, _shocked_. But he wasn't.

 _He made me this way, the Overlord,_ Arthur thought, staring and feeling more disgusted with himself than grief-stricken for the girl. _He made us all this way. He put people in front of us so we could watch them die, so that we could hear how they screamed and writhed and begged for mercy. We've seen too much death and hurt to grieve for something as common as a little girl dying. We want to mourn, but that bastard took that away. One of the most powerful human emotions—gone. And all he had to do was strip us of our control._ He brushed the girl's bloody hair out of her face. Even as he touched her cold skin, nothing stirred within him. His unbidden apathy made him ill. _He discovered our weakness. We have seen slaughter before, but we have always had some sort of control or reprieve to rely on. Now we are mortal and helpless. And the killing seems much more intimate, much—_ closer _. Sitting on Death's doorstep every day for months on end really does make one indifferent to it._ Arthur gave the girl's hand one last stroke and gathered his legs beneath him, pushing himself to wobbly feet. He took a step and his ankle gave out, sending him falling sideways until he threw out an arm and found a wall. A wall that was not curved and damp, but flat and cold. Icy cold. Like the little girl's dead body. He saw a reddish light flickering up ahead and shuffled along the wall toward it, step by unsteady step.

_We were fools. Blasted, bloody fools. Did we really believe that we could live forever? Did we truly think that we could never be harmed like this?_

Arthur paused for a moment, his knees weakening just a bit at the image of Christopher, his first mate, his ship sinking in the distance as he watched, alone, from his dingy. He still remembered his dream, the one conjured by Agramon. How Christopher's skin was white slime, wicked away by every swish of water. Before, he had the urge to be sick. Now he could only want to be.

_Did we really think that captains don't always go down with their ships?_

The flickering disk of ghostly red that swelled with every step he took was more than ominous, and Arthur knew that someone must have made the floor beneath his feet disappear for a reason, just as he knew whoever did this must possess powers he had never bothered to imagine, because how could it be? The Overlord wanted Arthur to find him. He wanted to lure Arthur into his lair, make him take the low ground and fight his way up while the bastard bloodied him as much as he could along the way.

And Arthur was glad to fall into his clutches. Because blood may stain, but it always faded. Pride, however, was something that would always be with him, as strong as its beginning. The Overlord had foolishly presumed to take it from him. Arthur would show him that a former empire could not be so easily extinguished. Not when he himself had held the world in his hands and found that it was too vast for any one person, however powerful, to own.

He would be glad to teach the Overlord such a lesson.

His mind flashed back to all those times he and his brothers had fought. They had done everything imaginable to each other—wrestled, kicked, punched, screamed, cursed, threatened. There had even been an argument during which Arthur had hurled a lamp across the room. He remembered the clattering _thump_ the lamp had made when it met Lennox's ribs. He also remembered seeing the bruise he had caused across his brother's chest afterward, when he had let himself in to Lennox's house to berate him for not answering his calls. He had stood and stared for nigh on ten minutes, at the devastation of blue and purple and sickening yellow the lamp had painted across the older man's chest. The lamp Arthur had so recklessly and thoughtlessly thrown.

He remembered thinking that he was sorry. He wished that his sympathy had lasted longer than three seconds. And that he had woken Lennox to apologize before he left.

 _I told Sean that I never wanted to see him again,_ Arthur mused, nearly tripping over his own feet. _Bryce told me that he wasn't my brother. I told him that I didn't want a brother who fucked sheep anyway._ Arthur laughed hollowly, a rapid exhale of breath that hurt his lungs. _Ian gave me a black eye in a bar fight over who allowed Sean to get hurt. I had it for weeks. When Sean saw me next, he laughed and said I'd gotten less than I deserved. Lennox told me I was a shit brother who had no responsibility running a kingdom that I barely knew how to hold together. I'd yelled at Lennox. Said that if he wasn't such an ass all the time, maybe we'd get on better. And I threw a lamp at him. Then I called him a cancerous prick and almost wrenched his door off its hinges when I slammed it shut._ Arthur's eyes stung and his face felt very hot. He paused only a moment to cough up the prickly feeling from his throat. _Sean would come over to my house for a hand of cards and pretend it was the liquor that made him so boisterous and happy. I would wake up to see him passed out on the couch, and I wouldn't mind him being there._ Arthur swallowed his regret. There was no room for it where he was going. There was only here and now. _I'd be hungover and I'd ask Bryce to read to me. He would. Every time I asked, he would. His voice was a lullaby._ Arthur looked up, saw that the red light was growing closer, sending flickering fingers creeping toward him along the wall. _Ian would pull me into a round of_ Fiddler's Green _and bugger all who complained. And Lennox hugged me, the great prat._ A wisp of a smile crossed Arthur's face for just a moment, and for a moment everything seemed to be a little brighter. _He hugged me and called me 'little brother'. And I hugged him back._

 _"Tell him what happened to us is not his fault and that any of us would have done the same for him,"_ Feliciano had claimed Lennox had said.

 _I would have as well,_ Arthur thought, his eyes burning again. _I wish I could have had the sense to tell you._

Other memories flashed through his mind—of Alfred crying and losing his wits enough to beat a man to death; Matthew screaming on his knees in front of what he thought was Francis's grave; the empty look in Francis's eyes as he recounted how he had been gang raped, the cigarette burns and scars and bruises that littered the man's bare torso; Kiku's withdrawn demeanor, how he seemed like a shell whose only purpose was to exist; the fear in Yao's eyes when he saw that Kiku had disobeyed him and put himself in danger; the bandana which was all that was left of Sadiq, tied around Matthew's arm; Ivan writhing and screaming like nothing Arthur had ever heard as he was cut open and sewn back together; Gilbert's body lying in a pool of blood, his head massacred; Ludwig stooped over his brother, tears rolling down his face with no effort left to hold them in; Lovino's body swinging limply from the braided rope noose, pale, listless, dead eyes staring at something far, far away; Feliciano's sobs as he took his brother in his arms and told him how much he loved him; Lennox shot in Arthur's arms, abandoned in front of his home, where everything began and ended at once.

 _He hurt us. He hurt every one of us._ Arthur clenched his fists and ground his teeth so hard his jaw became sore. _Now I'll hurt_ him _._

The reddish light overtook him. It swallowed him and spit him out into a room drenched in an intense, bloody tint. It had high concrete walls that looked thick and impenetrable, lined with nothing that offered the reassurance that there was any sort of life within. But there was. Someone had obviously given an identity to this room—something that was eerie and unnatural. A large screen stretched along the wall, casting a surrealistic hue to the walls and cutting through the red haze like bestial eyes glowing in the dark. Beneath it extended a large board littered with an assortment of winking buttons and glinting levers. The bare red walls danced with white light projected from the screen as figures moved across the scope of the cameras in the tunnels. Arthur would have liked to further examine the screen, to confirm that their offensive was working, to count their losses, and, most importantly, to perhaps catch a miraculous glimpse of someone whose fate had been gnawing at his mind. But, as glaring as the brightness was of the technology that was spread before him, he noticed something that begged his attention against the farthest wall. Something that was sprawled on the floor, back against the wall, shaking, breath rattling, coughing—alive. Just as Arthur was contemplating whether or not he was still indeed lying unconscious in the tunnel, dreaming up this especially vivid scene on the heels of a brain hemorrhage, he realized that someone was speaking. That it wasn't just the buzzing and beeping of the control board that was penetrating his ears.

"Pathetic." The voice was coming from a large rolling chair whose back hid the speaker, cold, high, and riddled with derision. "I'll make you realize that. I'll—" The chair shifted a little, just enough for Arthur to see the gray, elongated fingers that gripped an armrest. "Ah, I think we have company." The man against the wall lifted his head. Arthur squinted, the light distorting the stranger's features.

Then the man in the chair hissed, "We meet again, limey bastard."

The insult was familiar and the tone was definitely inhuman, but his logic was lost to him as he finally identified the man who sat bleeding and gasping against the wall. He opened his mouth and no words came out.

" _No_ ," Alfred rasped. His breathing picked up and his limbs began to shake that much harder.

The sound of his voice squeezed all the air from Arthur's lungs, leaving him free to fill them. "Alfred," was all he could say, because suddenly everything seemed so real and his heart was pounding so hard it left little room for his lungs to expand.

"Just the man I need. How kind of you to deliver yourself to me so willingly." The chair swiveled, and Arthur's jaw dropped. The thing in the chair laughed, its absent mouth adding a sinister edge to its presence. " 'Welcome to my web, said the spider to the fly'. A fitting phrase, is it not? Oh don't look so surprised, England. I thought most out of everyone that at least _you_ would possess capacity enough to identify the Overlord. I had my hopes… but then again you humans are truly obtuse creatures. I don't see my sense in believing you would break that streak. Still, it would certainly have been more interesting if you had happened to fulfill my wishes. Oh well. We can't all have what we want. But I'm sure you understand such a concept, after—" He spread his arms in a gesture that referred to the entire world and all the suffering that came with its death throes.

 _I refuse to fulfill any wish of yours,_ Arthur wanted to remark, but all that came out was, "Y-you're… Tony, that… the _alien_?"

Tony rolled his red eyes, which seemed to glow in the red light, as if projecting it. "Oh please. You shouldn't be so shocked. You converse with fairytale creatures that don't _nearly_ possess the capacity of thought to achieve what I have."

Arthur ignored Alfred's woozy, "They're real?" to snap his gaping mouth shut and narrow his green eyes. "No, they don't possess the sinister drive to do what you have done. No one has except for you. All this time, you've been behind everything. I should have warned Alfred about you from the start. There was always something off."

Tony shrugged. He looked oddly smug for someone without a mouth to sneer with. "Don't try to explain away your ignorance. You merely disliked me. Suspecting me is a whole other matter that you barely even considered, judging by how stunned you looked upon seeing me."

Arthur's hands balled into trembling fists. "All this time, it was you. _You_ killed Sadiq, and Gilbert, and Lovino. _You_ killed Austria, Hungary, the Nordics, South Korea, even Sealand—all of them." Arthur's muscles bunched, ready. "You killed my brothers."

Tony threw his head back and laughed, only his eyes giving away his derisive mirth. Then he fixed his ruby eyes on Arthur once again. "Your ignorance is glaring, yet again. Your world was already half broken by the time I arrived, war-ravaged and politically divided. And it only got worse. In the end, it only took a little push to make it all crumble. Like blowing on a house of cards, really." He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes arching into slits. "And who do you think stacked those cards so thoughtlessly? Who do you think helped facilitate the downfall?"

Arthur suddenly stopped trembling and his fingers unfurled. He blinked, his heart sinking into his stomach and churning it up. _No,_ he thought. _He's playing with me._ Then he fell into his stance again, fists raised just a bit higher than before at his sides. "You're a liar." It was a lame comeback, but it was better than nothing.

Tony shook his head. "Now, I will admit that I am a liar. After all, I wouldn't have gotten to where I am without lying. But you can't ignore how obviously factual it is that you and your fellow nations were the ones who got all the dominoes lined up for me to knock down. On this note, I must thank you. I couldn't have done this without your help." Tony sat back and steepled his long fingers. Behind him, Alfred shimmied up the wall, arms splayed and quivering against it. "But, seeing as I have reached my goal, you nations are no longer useful to me. To become all-powerful I must eliminate all opponents, no matter how incapable they are of resisting me. You know how the dictatorial process works by now, I'm sure. Experience and all that, not enough it seems. Anyway, I need to get rid of everyone—except you." At this, Arthur stiffened. He didn't like the predatory way Tony was staring at him. "Oh no, you're important. As of yet. Allow me to explain."

The creak of the chair turning cut through Arthur's mind like a knife. Tony was redirecting his attention to Alfred, and Arthur seized his chance. He lunged forward, arms outstretched, prepared to spin the chair around and gouge out those hateful, mocking eyes, but something shifted in the air. It became heavier with a quickness that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. He caught the almost indiscernible twitch of a long, gray index finger before Arthur was flung backward. He slid halfway across the room before he could stop himself, too busy struggling to catch his breath, which had been crushed from his lungs. He landed on his back, his head snapping off the floor for the second time that day, and he forced himself to lay still long enough for the black spots to fade from his vision before rolling over and getting shakily to his knees, clutching his chest and gasping. He was alarmed to find that he was rasping with every breath, and he winced, biting through his bottom lip as he inhaled and was met with a piercing sting in his chest. He wanted to fall to the floor and curl up, but he braced his other hand against the floor and remained on his knees. He wouldn't give Tony any reason to think of him as too weak to oppose him, even though the alien had broken a couple of Arthur's ribs by barely lifting a finger.

Tony cleared his throat and completed his swivel in the chair. "Ah, you're up, I see. Good," he went on, as if he hadn't been interrupted. Alfred's face twisted into a scowl, and Tony chuckled. "Fearsome. That look would certainly intimidate me if I knew you had the power to act on it." He sighed. "But you're so weak without your title as a country. Shame. It would have been more enjoyable to spar a bit. Now you're far too fragile to offer any sort of entertainment. Humans really are dull, useless creatures." Alfred didn't waver in his scorn, bloody and unsteady as he was. The chair creaked again and red eyes peeked around the back of it to lock with Arthur's for a brief, chilling moment. "Now, limey, watch closely." And his finger twitched again.

Arthur's heart nearly burst from his chest as Alfred screamed. His left arm was held out as if suspended on puppet strings. The bones were twisting beneath his skin to the point that Arthur could see them _moving_. On and on, until two of Alfred's fingers were pushed to an impossibly skewed angle, and there was an audible snap. Alfred _howled_.

Alfred's arm was released and fell limp and rubbery to his side. He settled into barely-suppressed whimpers, his expression flickering in and out of agony. His body crumpled, legs giving out, but Tony forced him to remain standing. Alfred slid halfway down the wall before the alien yanked him upward by his broken arm. The American's mouth dropped open in a scream, and although nothing came out, his wide eyes reflected enough pain to have Arthur scrambling to his feet. His muscles bunched up again, legs ready to propel him to the chair. He took one step, then two. "You bas—"

"Ah-ah," Tony chided, and suddenly Arthur's ankles were caught, sending him face-forward to the floor. Arthur struggled to catch himself but ended up putting the bulk of his weight on his wrist, straining and snapping it. His forehead ricocheted off the concrete, and he lay there, biting back groans of agony as he cradled his wrist against him.

"Now, you know better, Arthur," Tony went on. "Surely you are wise enough to know that challenging someone of superior strength and intellect is a pointless venture." Arthur shifted on the floor, stretching out and lifting himself up with his good hand, his whole arm shaking. "Then again, you were always a stubborn one. Really a pain. But still, I must use you, so _stay there_." The air became heavy once more, as if a blanket of lead was being slowly laid over top of Arthur. He grunted and did everything he could to hold himself up, but his shaky arm gave out and he was pressed flat to the floor. The feeling was unlike anything he had ever felt before, but he did sense, through all of the confusion, that Tony was using energy to hold him down and perhaps torture Alfred. Arthur recalled the way the alien's finger had twitched before every horrible action. His eyes wandered down to his own fingers and lower still, to where bandages were loosely wrapped around his palm.

 _Magic?_ No, it couldn't be. Arthur had been alive for far too long to come across any sort of earthly magic he couldn't identify. But Tony _wasn't_ earthly—and it certainly _was_ energy he was using, just not his own. It was too different from Tony's own aura to be his own. So what the hell was the source of his power?

Tony could sense Arthur's power humming and collecting at the core of his being as the alien turned halfway around in his chair and stared pointedly at him. "Truly stubborn. Your predictability never ceases to amaze me. You can go on trying to resist me, and I can break one of Alfred's bones for every threatening move you make. Try me. You won't win."

Tony's cold glare and threatening tone wasn't what made Arthur disband the magic from his center. It was the fact that he had felt something like Tony's energy before. At least, what he now _identified_ as Tony's energy, or rather the energy he wielded, the source of which was still in question.

It was the aura he'd sensed whenever he'd touched that doorknob for a split second that led into the room where Feliciano seemed to be talking to himself back in the bunker. He'd sensed it in that house in Chicago. _But what the bloody hell_ is _it?_

Arthur ground his teeth together. His chest was being pressed into the floor to the extent that breathing was a difficult task, but using his magic was out of the question. It just wasn't worth it, especially if he didn't yet know how to properly fight Tony. His eyes flickered to Alfred, who was still dangling by his broken fingers, head down and quivering.

"Now, where was I?" Tony continued. He turned all the way around to face Arthur. His eyes bore into Arthur's own. "Ah, yes. I was getting down to the explanation. I apologize for my digression, but I just wanted to make the boundaries clear." His eyes flashed and Arthur choked as the weight pressing him down suddenly became heavier for just a moment. It was enough to send his heart into a frenzy. "Well, as I was saying, I can't kill you, Arthur. At least not yet. You see, I need you. Because you're special, Arthur. Not in an idolizing sort of way, no. Certainly not. You've helped me so far and produced dazzling results. Now you have one more task. One, but definitely the most important. _You_ , Arthur, are a very powerful man. You have lived long enough to know many things, but then again so have the other nations. What makes you unique is the fact that your presence is quite… different from the rest."

Arthur's heart seemed to stop. He swallowed. "The rest?"

"The rest of your species. Instead of being completely oblivious to what limited abilities your poorly-structured bodies have, _you_ have managed to sense what others can't. You possess enough experience using these abilities to be especially skilled. Which, as I assume you have come to understand, is a problem. At least when it comes to me." If Tony had a mouth, Arthur was sure that he would be smiling wickedly. "But one can't just waste power like yours, even though it does somewhat threaten my position. That foolishness would be on par with human logic. No, Arthur, I have other plans for you. Big plans. You understand my position, don't you? You have enough power to be troublesome, but you also have enough power to be useful. So what should I do?" Arthur imagined that smile stretching wider. "I'll just take all that you have to offer."

_All that I have…? He can't mean…_

"I expect obedience," Tony said, releasing Alfred's arm and allowing him to slide back down the wall. He hit the bottom and launched into a coughing fit. "I expect cooperation." He flicked his finger and Alfred's head was pulled up and back against the wall. The vulnerable way his throat was exposed made Arthur's stomach somersault. "I expect nothing less than complete and utter subservience. It is, after all, what I deserve. My hard work has paid off. I won, and I _will_ enjoy the spoils. But before that, I plan to have a little fun. Jeanne."

Both Arthur's and Alfred's eyes snapped to a door just across the room that the Briton hadn't even known was there. And yet it was opening and someone was stepping out of it, someone frighteningly familiar. And another someone Arthur was absolutely _sure_ he knew.

"Jeanne," Tony repeated, swiveling around to greet her. "And a friend."

Arthur's eyes widened. "Feliciano."

* * *

_"Each man has his appointed day: short and irreparable in the brief life of all, but to extend our fame by our deeds, this is the work of mankind."_

—Virgil

"Do you hear him screaming?" Jeanne hissed in his ear. "Listen closely. Can you hear the rest of them dying?"

Feliciano jerked his head away, biting his lip to keep the whimpers in. He was still strapped up to some kind of vertical device that could be wheeled wherever Jeanne pleased, like some sort of grotesque trolley. At the moment, Jeanne had brought him here, to the end of a dark corridor lit only by the red light pouring in from beneath the door. Feliciano didn't know exactly what was happening on the other side, but there were obviously two people fighting—and one was losing very badly.

Worse than even the screaming and sneering from outside was the looming presence of Jeanne, leaning over him and breathing down his neck.

But that was before the whispers began.

They hissed worse than Jeanne. Said things like, _"You're not strong enough,"_ and _"You can't do anything,"_ and _"They'll all die because of you."_ The words jabbed into his ear, twisting and twisting, until Feliciano's head was on the verge of bursting.

Feliciano ached to cover his ears, despite knowing that it would do no good. His temples pounded and his heart jumped at every shriek. Suddenly Jeanne's presence beside him was incredibly suffocating. The closer she was to him, the better he could feel her distended, wriggling belly. And the more he felt her belly, the more he was reminded of Jeanne's promise.

_"You'll watch me give birth to what you and your bastard friends never bothered to give two fucks about, even when you saw the signs."_

_I did see the signs,_ Feliciano thought, squeezing his eyes shut as he felt yet another ripple of movement cross Jeanne's belly. _We all saw the signs._ When Ivan had interrogated her, told her to lift up her shirt and show him firsthand her misfortune. The Russian told everyone who hadn't been in the car afterward that he had seen the remnants of Jeanne's pregnancy. Supposedly, nothing had been out of place. That didn't mean that it hadn't been suspicious. _We should have examined her more._ But most of all, Feliciano regretted not mentioning to anyone else what he had seen on the side of the road, when Jeanne had volunteered to remove the bullet from Ivan's side. The way she'd cut into him was obviously well practiced, but her expression was something completely different. While everyone had been watching the knife carve through Ivan's flesh, Feliciano, too sickened to observe, had instead directed his gaze to Jeanne's face. And he had been shocked at what he saw.

 _She was smiling._ Feliciano's stomach twisted as a new voice joined the two in the other room. The door was so thick, he could hardly understand anything they were saying. But it was thin enough for him to hear the screams that soon resumed. Feliciano flinched. _She wasn't even trying to hide it. With every slice her grin got wider. Even when he was screaming she was still smiling like his agony was the best thing in the world._ Feliciano hadn't told anyone afterward, had thought that he had just been seeing things. How could he have let himself dismiss it so easily? Jeanne was practically rejoicing in Ivan's pain. Right then, Feliciano should have realized that Ivan's screams were Jeanne's vengeance. The Russian had probed too deep with his questioning. Jeanne's main objective was not only healing Ivan; the real intent was much greater and more sinister than that. She was putting Ivan in his place, showing him how much she could do if the need should arise.

Suddenly the whispers seemed much more meaningful. _I should have said something. I should have said something._ Why _didn't I say something?_

He jumped when he felt a cold hand on his shoulder. The fingers curled around him, clutching like claws. "Shall we join them? You seem excited."

Feliciano's stomach lurched at the possibility, but he barely had the time open his mouth to express his dissent before the hand disappeared just long enough to flip the latch and push open the door. Then it was back again, digging into the tender skin between his shoulder and collar bone.

Feliciano was pushed forward, blinded by the red light he was met with and glad for it.

Breath puffed against his ear. "Open your eyes." Feliciano whimpered and bit his lip. He couldn't. He couldn't see what he had been hearing for the past half hour. He had heard those kinds of noises before—made by animals dying on the side of the road. But Jeanne would have none of that.

" _Open them_ ," she hissed, grabbing Feliciano's chin in two iron fingers and directing his face toward the sounds. "Or I'll _cut_ them open."

Feliciano whimpered and did as he was told.

* * *

_"You and I have a rendezvous with destiny. We will preserve for our children this, the last best hope of man on earth, or we will sentence them to take the first step into a thousand years of darkness. If we fail, at least let our children and our children's children say of us we justified our brief moment here. We did all that could be done."_

—Ronald Reagan

"Feliciano."

Alfred lifted his head from his place curled against the wall. He followed Arthur's gaze until his eyes met the pale and shivering Italian. "No," he breathed. _Not again. This was supposed to be my responsibility. Why did you get caught? Why are you so_ stupid _?_ A sickening mixture of fear and frustration twisted his stomach into painful knots, and his head throbbed all the more harshly. Arthur was there, and now Feliciano. Two nations, two _friends_ , were now in danger. This was not what he wanted. This is not what he had planned.

"You… goddamn bastard." Tony turned to him, eyes mocking and challenging. Alfred's conscience screamed at him to shut up and Arthur's stare urged him to do the same, but he needed to protest. He needed to keep all of Tony's attention and rage on him. It was the only way. The way he had planned.

Tony's eyes filled with something that could have been glee. Alfred's heart felt like someone had reached in and squeezed it. "Ah, have I struck a nerve? I have simply been pressing buttons before, but now I've stabbed at something sensitive. I bet you would writhe and beg if I made your friends scream and bleed. Shall I? It sounds like an interesting experiment, don't you think?"

"No!" Alfred shouted before he could think. When he saw Tony's eyes flash, Alfred's scowl wavered just a bit and his voice lost its bite. "No. Please."

The smile was back in Tony's eyes again. "I see. So this is what you've become. One little threat, and you crumble and plead like a helpless child. I hate people like you, who pretend they're strong and all-powerful to stoke your own ego. I, on the other hand, am power incarnate. Power does not come instantly nor is it bestowed to an individual at birth. One must wait patiently for power to come and groom oneself to receive such power. That is where you and I differ, Alfred. You and the rest of your fellow nations are arrogant to assume that you were so apart from the rest of your kind as to be imbued with free, limitless power. You're so arrogant that you assume you are above every other living thing. But look at you now, groveling at my feet. You are no different than other humans: dimwitted and feeble. No more than blood bound in skin. No exoskeleton to protect your insides, no defenses to speak of but your boasted, inferior intellect—humans were made to be dominated. Slaughtered. Of all the missions my fellow scouts were assigned, mine was by far the easiest. At first, I was offended. However, after witnessing all of the absurdities and ceaseless vanity that comes with your species, I began to look forward to killing you. And I had many years to plan how.

"Allow me to explain in detail all that I've wanted to do through decades of suffering your boundless idiocy: I will have you watch the birth of my hybrid offspring and how it will slowly devour Italy. Then I will painfully extract every bit of power from Arthur before I give him the death of a thousand cuts—a little something I learned from my time on your stinkhole of a planet. And, finally, I will break every bone in your body, Alfred, until you're a useless sack of skin and blood and broken things. But I won't kill you. Oh no. Once my men capture every one of your fellow nations, I will have them brought in, one by one. And you will watch them suffer. They'll die and be fed to my offspring. You will watch it grow and grow, until it is old enough for you to see the superiority of my genes. And then it will eat you, just a bite every day. You will heal, and it will consume your flesh again. You will spend the rest of your life as a renewable food source until I give you permission to die." Tony's long fingers drummed with sinister intent on the arm of his chair. "Oh yes. I have been waiting a _long_ time for this. I will enjoy it thoroughly."

Alfred was sure he hadn't heard right. He sat there, heart pounding, and stared. He opened his mouth to ask Tony to repeat himself—every grisly detail, because he _needed_ to know it wasn't true, it couldn't be. But he forgot how to breathe just long enough for Arthur to ask for him.

" _Offspring_?" the Briton said. _No, such a thing… it's impossible._ But the more he thought about it, the more he couldn't deny that an alien-human hybrid could be a very likely phenomenon. After all, he didn't know much about Tony or his race, and from the way the alien was talking it sounded as if his people were ages ahead of earthly science. If Tony possessed powers that Arthur could barely explain, then it was very likely that he could have facilitated crossbreeding between his species and humans. He chewed his lip as he pondered this and heard someone whimper a few feet away. He turned his head and looked up to see Feliciano trembling in his restraints. Only when the Italian's eyes trailed to the side did Arthur realize that Jeanne's hand was moving—moving over something large and round and sickeningly _natural_ beneath her stretched shirt. Arthur's heart felt like it could have tripled in size. _That… that thing, it's in…_

Alfred's gaze followed Arthur's until he too was staring at the suspicious mound of Jeanne's stomach. _Okay, so the crazy bitch went and got knocked up again, so what?_ But the way Arthur was looking at the bulge, how he appeared as pale and still as a marble statue, devoid of life, was enough to foster doubt in the pit of his stomach. It was only then that Alfred knew Tony's words were dangerously real.

Tony chuckled and Alfred's eyes returned to him. "Good, good. You are finally connecting the pieces, I see. Miraculous, considering how primitively your minds function. Jeanne, here, has been one of my most loyal allies. A human, like yourselves, raised within a horribly misguided society, one of your own _lawmen_ , ironically—so easily turned in my favor. So much so that she is willing to bear the first hybrid child, something your race could never have hoped to achieve in this century or the next. In a way, I am doing you a favor. I am enhancing the human race. But I trust you have enough knowledge to be aware of how evolution goes: once a newer, better model is created, another must be extinguished. Of course that would be a long and inconvenient process, so I will speed its course along until I weed out all the rebellious ones. You should be familiar with the laws of breeding as well. Two subservient beings will undoubtedly produce more subservient beings." Tony fingers drummed on the arm of his chair, as if itching to enact all that he was saying that instant. "And thus will begin the _real_ era of humankind: serving. The remaining, _useful_ , few will toss away the foolish idea of superior human intellect and acknowledge the fact that they are lowly, despicable creatures whose lives were spared only because they finally realized their inferiority. They will be indebted and _grateful_ to their masters. Some might even come to enjoy their place. After all subservience is the _true_ nature of humans. Human science is just denial, and ignorance besides. They will be much happier living in the state they were meant to live in once the colonization has been completed."

 _Colonization?_ Arthur thought with alarm. Perhaps it was a code word for something imminent? He caught Alfred's eye and noticed that something was moving at his side. He lowered his gaze and identified Alfred's remained, unbroken fingers as the source. His hand rested limp on the floor, but two fingers were curled upward, moving in a beckoning motion. Arthur didn't hesitate. He didn't know how he knew to extend his consciousness, but the next second he could hear Alfred's voice as clear as if he was sitting right next to him. Alfred's mouth didn't move and he kept his gaze locked with Arthur's.

_"The bastard plans to call his mothership. They want to take over the planet. Turns out the whole time he was here he was scouting and waiting to strike when we were weakest."_

Arthur's heart skipped a beat. _You've got to be… how?_

_"That switch. The silver one on his left. He'll summon—"_

There was suddenly a rough _hisss, hisss_ sound that Arthur eventually construed as Tony's laughter. The chair swiveled once again, the back of it to them both. "Ah, I forgot how woefully thick-headed humans are. Did you not hear me say that your minds are primitive at best?" Arthur tensed, disliking the way Tony was speaking to them without looking at them. It was as if he had eyes in the back of his head. "I suppose not, else you would have understood that a telepathic exchange would be just as audible as if you had two shouted across the room at each other. It's a good thing that I don't expect much from you. As for your question, Arthur, yes, colonization means colonization. With a flick of this—"—Tony's fingers ghosted over the knob of the switch—"Earth will no longer be in the hands of creatures so mundane, and I will have my fame."

Arthur bit his lip and Alfred swallowed. Feliciano, on the other hand, was utterly terrified, not at Tony's words but at the fact that he could _feel_ the thing in Jeanne's stomach nudging him. Now it wasn't just the harmless kicks of an infant, but the sinister grasping of a hungry monster. At one point, Feliciano could even feel each of creature's fingers hooking around his bound arm and nearly jumped out of his skin. At this, Jeanne smiled at him and said to Tony, "I believe it is time, my Grand Overlord."

 _Creeaak_. The chair turned again. Tony steepled his fingers in his lap, waiting for the show. "Oh, is it? Excuse my waffling. Is the child growing hungry?"

Jeanne nodded. "Definitely. And he knows who his first meal is going to be." Jeanne laughed as Feliciano flinched and whimpered, her hand tracing the obscene bulge of her stomach. It looked almost too big to be real, but as Arthur studied it further he could see something _move_. His lip split beneath the abuse of his teeth.

"Go on then, my dear," Tony spread his arms in welcome, "give the child what he wants. We wouldn't want all of our hard work to go to waste, now would we?"

Jeanne didn't say a word, though her smile seemed to get wider. She turned to Feliciano and proceeded to unstrap him. She kept his hands and feet bound and let him drop to the floor once he was free. Feliciano, with his hands tied behind his back, was unable to catch himself, and ended up breaking his nose on the cement with a cry. Blood poured from him, pooling beside his head, and he continued to whimper and snuffle as Jeanne hastily disrobed and positioned herself before him. She placed her hands behind her and spread her legs so that the abomination inside her would have clear access to its prey once it was born. Feliciano lifted his head and rolled over so that he lay on his side, facing her. He knew he should look away, that if he didn't he just might throw up, but he couldn't. His ambivalence was a mix of shameful responsibility and morbid curiosity. Jeanne flashed him a wicked smile, and Feliciano blubbered.

"Get away from him!" Alfred yelled. He wouldn't allow anyone else to die for his oversight. He hadn't seen Tony for who he really was, had welcomed him and treated him like a friend while the alien plotted mankind's demise. He had to right what he had failed to notice. "You said you wanted to make me suffer most? Have it feed on me!"

Tony sighed and shook his head. "Yet again your ignorance has proved abundant. Did you not hear me say that you will be eaten in due time? Aside from that, you do not have to be eaten alive to suffer."

Alfred didn't know what to say to that, and he feared that if he continued to protest that Tony would find more ways to hurt Feliciano and Arthur to fuel his suffering. He looked to Arthur, whose green eyes cut through the red gloom as they flashed in panic. This was it. Their time would be over with the birth of the hybrid. Alfred wanted with everything in him to pull Feliciano away and gouge Tony's mocking red eyes out, but every time he so much as twitched, he could feel what he suspected was the alien's power holding him back against the wall. All he could do was sit and watch, waiting for the thing that could have been prevented to unfold. Everyone seemed to hold their breath.

Barely a minute passed before Jeanne let loose a high, piercing scream. Feliciano tensed and screamed with her. He made to roll backward, deciding that he wasn't all that curious to see what would soon devour him, but invisible hands forced him down. His cheek pressed against the cold floor and his eyes pried open, he had no choice but to watch a flood of fluid burst from between Jeanne's thighs, sluicing toward him and bathing him in foul-smelling, opalescent green slime. The Italian gasped and sputtered, answering with a retch just as foul. He looked up and could have heaved more if his stomach wasn't empty when he saw Jeanne's stomach rising and falling more violently than before, continuously moving like waves on water. Feliciano hadn't known skin to be so durable and thought that the creature might tear Jeanne's stomach open with the force of its kicks. Its movements were powerful, enough for Feliciano to already cower, but Jeanne's black-veined stomach remained intact. Jeanne shrieked throughout, her eyes bulging, sweat plastering her hair to her forehead, blood issuing in thin, dark slivers from her nose and mouth. Everything was so shocking and frenzied that Feliciano didn't realize he was also screaming until Jeanne's belly stopped moving and Jeanne stopped yelling.

Feliciano, shivering and confused, stared unblinkingly at Jeanne's stomach as it rose and fell. Everything was silent, vacuum-like, and then there was a murmur. At first, Feliciano thought that someone is the room was talking, or—terrifyingly—the thing that was in Jeanne's belly. But the voice grew louder and more abundant, until Feliciano _knew_ this was something far less innocent.

_"The bloody head is coming."_

The words were followed by a sharp jab to his head like none he had ever felt before. Agonized, Feliciano wailed and sobbed, bound to the floor by Tony's immense power. He wanted more than anything to crawl away and find a safe, quiet place to endure the voices or to at least curl up into a ball to weather the episode. But Tony held him down, and the voices escalated. Arthur and Alfred watched, helpless.

"Feliciano!" Alfred yelled and launched into a flurry of swearing and fruitless writhing. Tony paid him hardly any mind, choosing instead to indulge in the torture of the screaming Italian.

_"It's coming, it's coming."_

"No!" Feliciano cried, squeezing his eyes shut. "No! Stop! Go away! Go away!"

Arthur instinctively reached out to Feliciano with his mind without thinking and found himself forcefully repelled with a harsh stab to his head. Arthur returned to himself, discovering that he his mouth was filled with blood and soon after concluding that he had bitten his tongue in his pain. Through the pounding in his skull, Arthur realized that, for the split second he had access to Feliciano's thoughts, he had felt what was, unmistakably, Tony's energy. Arthur's anger flared. "Get out of his head, you sadistic bastard! Isn't getting eaten alive enough torture for you?"

Tony turned to look at him, his eyes glowing with pleasure. "No."

One of the alien's fingers twitched. Something inside Arthur stung, and he coughed up blood.

Alfred wrenched so hard that he broke free of Tony's snare for a moment. He had enough time to make a futile reach for the alien, but he was quickly pinned back in place, this time his arms stretched out against the wall. "Fucking hurt him again, and I'll—"

Tony gave a dismissive wave. "I have no interest in listening to your idle threats. This is a momentous occasion none of you have yet to see in your long lifetimes: accelerated human evolution. I'm providing a real treat. Besides, your efforts are wasted. Watch and witness the extraordinary product of _real_ science. I daresay you might learn something, though I have my doubts."

_"It's coming. The bloody head is here."_

Feliciano screamed.

"Let go of him! Let go of him!" Arthur shouted, not caring if it would do no good. He wanted Feliciano to know that he wasn't alone, that somehow they would save him. They had to. "You goddamn monster! _Let him go_!"

Tony's red eyes flickered to Arthur and flashed maliciously. "As you say." And he snapped his fingers.

Feliciano felt Tony's energy lift from him, and his bonds snapped, freeing his limbs. The Italian's hands immediately shot to his ears, fingers ripping out chunks of hair, nails leaving deep gouges in his scalp. "Go away! Get out! Please, go away!" he sobbed, blood trailing down his face.

_"Bloody head. You can't stop it"_

Tony roared with laughter. "Well, go on, Feliciano. What are you waiting for? I have freed you. You can run."

_"You know you can't. You're a weak fool."_

Arthur stared in shock, guilt churning in his belly. Alfred writhed all the more, close to tearing his shoulder out of its socket. "Feliciano, don't let that sonofabitch get to you! He's a liar and a cheat and a fucking scumbag!"

Tony _tsk_ ed. "Now, now, we can't have the lamb bleating on the altar, can we? Especially not when the last rites are being said. You understand." He flicked his finger. Alfred's head cracked back against the wall and all he could do was gasp.

_"A weak fool. You know nothing and you can do nothing. You're a terrible excuse for life. A sniveling, pathetic waste."_

Feliciano's fingers lowered in an attempt to shred his ears. "No! Stop! _Please_!" It hurt too much, like a stake was being driven through his head over and over again, going deeper every time. All he could do was lay there and writhe. So consumed was he in his agony, that he didn't notice that Jeanne had started to scream once more. Alfred and Arthur watched her distended belly bulge and ripple more violently than before. The black veins thickened and throbbed, bursting as the hybrid made its way down her abdomen, turning the flesh around it a bruise-like black. Blood rushed from her in gushing waves.

_"It will be born and it will devour everything you care about. And what will you do? Lay here and wait to be eaten yourself, like the useless piece of prey you are and always have been."_

Tony leaned forward in his chair, gripping the arms in anticipation. "Yes, my dear, you are doing well. But I'm afraid that I forgot to mention one thing when we made our little agreement. That hybrid is so big that it has been half starving since its conception. It has been hungry for six long months, and now it's absolutely ravenous, which is bad news for you. My kind's offspring eat their mothers. It's all for health reasons, of course. I trust you will fulfill your duties until the end, Jeanne. That was your promise. And I kept mine. I gave you a baby, didn't I?"

 _"They'll all meet the same fate, all of your friends. The hybrid will_ needneedneed, _and it will feed until it gets its fill. Its human emotions were bred out of it, leaving a superior mind and a form that other humans will foolishly trust. It will be a monster, nothing like this world has ever seen. A monster of human shape. Almost like a cannibal. A whole race of cannibals will be born."_

Jeanne's scream reached a pitch higher than humanly possible, blood streaming from every orifice on her face. The thing in her belly was moving so roughly that Arthur thought he caught a glimpse of a hand, starkly detailed, just beneath the surface. And it was big.

Then Jeanne arched off the floor. A sickening _crack_ echoed across the room, and the woman fell limp to the floor, tongue lolling and spittle bubbling at her lips.

Everything was quiet, even the voices in Feliciano's head. The Italian opened one eye—and saw something red and round straining at the skin between Jeanne's lifeless legs. Black veins pulsed under new, thin flesh. Feliciano's heart nearly burst from his chest, his muscles paralyzed with shock.

A single voice in his head whispered, _"This monster will end everything, and you're too much of a coward to stop it. It will devour them all."_

 _No, it will_ not, Feliciano thought, muscles tensing as the thing squirmed in its struggle for freedom. Something snapped in Jeanne, and more blood surged out from around the head. Because that's what it was. The crowning of a cannibal. The birth of their end. _It won't feed, I won't let it. No, no, I'm not weak. I'm not weak, I'm—_

 _"NOT WEAK!"_ Feliciano roared and launched himself toward Jeanne.

Tony let out a bark of laughter, but quickly frowned when he flicked his finger and nothing happened. He lifted his hand and examined it, flicking his finger a few more times just to be sure. "What? What the hell is this?" He looked up to see Feliciano reaching for one of Jeanne's outstretched legs. "Well, someone lost their temper." He snapped his fingers with a resounding, electric _crack_ , and Feliciano plunged to the floor as if a giant weight had suddenly been dropped on him. The Italian's body strained, shoulders lifting shakily before being pinned back down again.

Arthur felt Tony's hold over him waver for just a moment, possibly because of an adjustment of the alien's power as he transferred some presumably unneeded energy from his other captives to the suddenly rebellious Feliciano. As clever as the alien claimed to be, he had made one mistake. He had _presumed_.

"Come on, Alfred," Arthur whispered low enough that only he could hear. "Follow my lead for once."

Arthur gathered all of his power to his core and struck out with his mind.

_Bloody hell, I hope this works._

Tony had been so preoccupied trying to subdue Feliciano's unexpected burst of power that he only sensed Arthur's mental presence seconds before the Briton's attack reached him. The alien snapped his head around, red eyes flashing, and the next moment Arthur had hit a brick wall of solid energy. Arthur clenched his teeth and pushed back, the weight on him lessening and allowing him to crawl to his hands and knees. His muscles ached with the effort to hold himself up and fend off the alien's mental jabs at once. Arthur struggled to maintain his offensive as he probed for weak spots in the alien's barrier, but every crack he came across was quickly filled in as Tony concentrated his energy more and more into his defense. It was only then that Arthur realized how immense the alien's power was. Arthur's only conclusion was that Tony had been hiding much of his energy from the Briton's senses, but as the wall grew higher and began to push back, Arthur knew that Tony could not possibly contain that much power. _But_ how _?_

Arthur was so lost in his thoughts about Tony's power that he didn't notice a surge of energy striking out toward him. He pulled back and began to build a barrier of his own, but Tony's reflexes were sharper. The alien's power sliced through Arthur's consciousness like a knife, leaving his energy in tatters and making his head throb so much he thought it would burst. He curled up on the ground as the power ripped through him, surging like a bullet deeper and deeper into him until he felt a pressure on his heart. The delicate organ fluttered frantically as it was caught in a clamp, choking and sputtering as it was squeezed more and more. Soon Arthur could hear and _feel_ his strained heartbeats throughout his body. And someone was screaming, screaming so loud he feared his eardrums would burst along with his heart—

And then the weight lifted from his chest, the pressure fled, and he realized the screaming he was hearing was his own. Dizzy and winded, everything in him went limp and shivery. Gasping, he managed to move his head just a bit to see what had caused Tony's sudden retreat. What he saw made his weakened heart pulse painfully behind his ribs.

The energy devoted to pinning Alfred to the wall had subsided significantly when Tony devoted the bulk of his power to fending off Arthur's attack—and the American had seized the opportunity. He was hunched over the back of Tony's chair, his white-knuckled hands wrapped around the alien's neck. Tony's eyes were bulging but otherwise calm. Arthur, though weak, could sense the alien gathering his power to him. He wanted to shout for Alfred to get back, but Tony lifted his finger and it was too late.

Alfred was thrown across the room, his gut contracting inward, as if he had been punched. He hit the floor was a heavy _whump_ , limbs flailing, boneless, as he slid across the icy cement. "Alfred," Arthur croaked, but Tony didn't spare him a glance as he turned to confront Alfred, who was turning over and pushing himself to his knees. His glasses were gone, but he didn't seem to notice. He wiped the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, panting and staring Tony down with eyes as cold as chipped ice. It was the same look he'd had when he had beaten Higgins' face to pulp. Arthur wondered where the Alfred he knew had gone.

Tony seemed unimpressed with Alfred's attack and subsequent glare, however brutal they were. The alien didn't appear harmed or even intimidated. Instead, his eyes took on that gleeful glint again and he said, "Well, I suppose I should have expected your stubbornness to rear its ugly head. Although it's not something that can't be fixed. You'll just need a little… convincing." Free of Tony's restraints, Feliciano began to reach out for Jeanne again, but the alien pinned him down once again and snapped, "Don't you move! I'm offering you prime entertainment, and I will have you _watch_." He twirled a finger and Feliciano was turned so that he had a full view of Alfred. Arthur stared, a million thoughts as to what Tony meant buzzing through his head, and then he saw the alien reach over to his control board and press a button.

A few seconds passed, Arthur's heart counting every one with consuming throbs. And then there was a _hisss_ , and a door slid open behind Alfred. Two Organization soldiers stepped out. Tony steepled his hands again, looking quite pleased with himself. "You are far too weak to fight me, but you're too stubborn to realize. If you think I'm wrong, fight my men. After all, they are only human; they should be nothing for the powerful hero America. Prove to me that you're a worthy opponent instead of the harebrained oaf I've known for decades. Go on, be the hero you claim to be."

Alfred remained where he was, his glare unwavering. One of the soldiers walked forward, his footfalls echoing off the empty walls. He grabbed Alfred's shoulder.

Alfred's hands shot up, grabbed the man's arm, and pulled him over onto his back. The soldier lay there for a second, twitching and gasping, before the other soldier sprang into action, jumping at Alfred with fists raised and ready and receiving a kick to the shin that sent him to his knees. Alfred launched himself onto him, straddling the soldier's waist as he dealt a hard blow to his jaw. He wound up for another when Tony said, "All right, boys. You let him have his fun."

 _What?_ Alfred just had time to think before the man he had flipped onto his back grabbed him from behind. Alfred's rage disappeared for a moment as an arm wrapped around his neck and dragged him off the soldier he was sitting on. He was pulled to his feet, the man holding him crushing his windpipe. The other soldier got up, wiped his face of blood, and drove his fist into Alfred's stomach. Alfred let out a sound like a deflating balloon before he was released, dropping to his knees and clutching his stomach, eyes disbelievingly wide and staring at the floor bathed in ghastly red light.

 _What? But how?_ Alfred's heart kicked into overdrive. _I… thought I had them… they—they were only…_

_… toying with me?_

He received his answer in the form of a kick to his side, sending him sprawling to the floor. Both men stepped up and began to drive their heels into his body, Alfred writhing to avoid them and hearing a couple of his ribs crack. Arthur was shouting and swearing, but Alfred couldn't be bothered to listen. He had managed to pull himself away only to be grabbed by the ankles, flipped over, and dragged back so that the soldiers could harm the more tender parts of his body. One man attacked his pelvis while the other plunged his heal into Alfred's belly.

Alfred felt as if his stomach was being squeezed up into his throat. He scrabbled at the floor, just barely turning himself over before he vomited. In the red light, it looked like he was retching up his insides.

He gathered his arms under him and tried to push himself up, but was pinned by a boot sole between his shoulder blades. All the air was knocked out of him, and he squeezed his eyes shut as his broken ribs were strained. He heard a scoff and opened his eyes to see Tony sitting on his throne, chuckling and watching the men beat him bloody. Tony was the king and Alfred was the animal dragged into the ring to be tortured for the alien's pleasure. The image made him sick. Tony had reduced Alfred to an insect. Rage coiled within him.

He _refused_ to be stomped into the ground like a common pest.

So the next time a foot came down to hurt him, he grabbed the ankle and twisted. Screaming in pain, the soldier fell onto his face as his feet were pulled out from under him. Alfred heard him mutter a thick, "Damn," and felt a shred of his confidence return.

Tony guffawed. "Regained some fight, have you? Well, this might give you some more encouragement." The alien reached over to the control board, where his finger found the silver switch and flicked it. At first, Alfred thought that he meant to call more guards in for him to fight and braced himself for the upcoming attack. Instead of hearing the door slide open behind him, a reverberating, electronic voice boomed throughout the room.

_"MESSAGE APPROVED FOR TRANSMISSION. TO BE SENT TO CONTACT 0253477KR IN 5 MINUTES AND 0 SECONDS. COMMENCING COUNTDOWN…"_

The menagerie of camera shots disappeared from the projection screen to be replaced with a large set of numbers. The seconds were counting down with resounding ticks. _57… 56… 55… 54… 53… 52…_

Alfred's eyes widened as he watched the clock. Tony drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. "Do be careful not to hurt yourself too much. I would love to show you to my brethren when they arrive. You are so very entertaining to torture, after all."

Something inside of Alfred snapped. He pushed himself to his feet and bowled the standing soldier over. The man hit the floor on his back, groaning as Alfred planted himself on top of him. Alfred wound up his fist and hammered it downward, growling as his knuckles met cement and not flesh. The soldier smirked up at him, Tony's presence clear in his eyes, his neck craned just enough to be out of Alfred's range. The American attempted to punch him again and once again his knuckles were bruised by the floor. Alfred huffed. The soldier wasn't nearly as slow as before.

Having had enough, Alfred grabbed the man's face between his fingers and held it still, ignoring the ache of his broken joints. "You better stay there, you bastard." He balled up his hand and drew it back to his ear, packing all the power he had behind it. He made to swing it forward, but found he couldn't.

The other soldier had recovered and had caught Alfred's fist in his hand. Alfred attempted to wrench it free but received a bone-crushing squeeze in return. He bit his lip as he felt the delicate bones in his fingers grind together and looked down to see a fist hurling toward him. It caught him on the chin, and he was knocked backward into arms that tightly restrained him. The soldier who'd punched him jumped at him, arms outstretched, intent on grabbing him and pinning him down again. But Alfred wouldn't allow it. He managed to wriggle one of his legs out from under himself soon enough to kick the man in the face. The soldier gave a cry and was jolted backward, clutching his nose and mouth, blood dripping out from between his fingers.

The soldier behind Alfred kneed him in the back of the head, sending black spots exploding across his vision. He swayed and caught himself on his hand before he was snatched up by the collar of his black turtleneck and pulled to his feet. Choking, he barely had time to lift his head before an arm wrapped around him like a brace and the man he had kicked punched him in the face. Alfred could feel his eye swelling and could taste blood running down the back of his throat from his broken nose, but the soldier gave him little time to recover, holding his own bleeding nose while he dealt a barrage of blows to Alfred's face, chest, and midriff. The American sputtered and gasped, feeling as if his internal organs were being sliced in half with every hit. His vision flickered and his head felt light and fuzzy. If they hit him anymore, he would pass out and would wake up in a world he hoped never to see, if he ever woke up at all.

"That's enough," Tony said. "I still want him to watch the show, although you did do a great job of making him uncomfortable."

Alfred was released and dropped onto all fours, his head pounding and body aching. His arms strained just to hold him up. The clock boomed, _"3 minutes and 0 seconds. 2 minutes and 59 seconds. 58…"_ and Tony laughed.

"Well, go on then, America. Don't tell me your strength has worn out? But I thought you were a superpower! And you say _I'm_ a liar." Tony _tsk_ ed. "Oh, what would Russia say? But I forgot, you're his bitch now, aren't you? I'm not surprised. The submissive position suits you."

Alfred felt anger burning inside his chest, but it was quickly disbanded when Tony continued, "But I could easily make _him_ submissive. Would you like that? I bet you'd gain a little pride back seeing him brought in and beaten until he passed out. Don't tell me you've never wanted that for him, America. I know you did. You have wanted him dead before many times. Surely allowing me to do the honors wouldn't move you in any way? You are, after all, indisposed."

The soldier gave an _oof_ as Alfred reached up and took fistfuls of the man's shirt, tugging him down with all his might. He used the soldier's body to pull himself upward and kneed the man in the stomach when he hit the floor. He made to kick him when he heard the shuffle of shoes behind him and whipped around to face the other soldier. Pain bloomed in his belly and he looked down.

The man's fist was pressed to Alfred's stomach, and at first Alfred couldn't pinpoint the source of the pain. Only when the soldier gave a twist, sending a blinding spark of agony through his system, and pulled away did Alfred see the cause.

Liquid warmth spread across the skin and through his shirt. He looked at the soldier in shock. The man only smirked and wiped his hand on his pant leg.

Arthur felt like all breath had gone from him, and he didn't refill his lungs until he saw Alfred clutch his stomach and fall to the floor. " _Alfred_!"

Alfred's belly was on fire and he could still feel the blade's path through his abdomen. He curled up on the floor, examining his hands. His palms were covered in a dark red that, under the light, was rendered almost black. More blood joined that already flowing from his stomach when a cough had him hunched over, retching up streams of it along with horrible, gelatinous clots he sincerely hoped weren't part of any vital organ.

Arthur exploded with rage. He pulled himself into a crouch and braced his hands against the floor, not caring that they ached like hell or if the bones of his broken wrist screamed in protest. "You goddamn bastard!"

Cracks rippled out from between his fingers, zigzagging across the floor as a surge of energy the likes of which he had never felt before burst from him like an animal that had been straining to get out since the Uprising began. It punched a gaping hole through Tony's mental wall, and within moments Arthur was exploring the depths of the alien's mind, unhindered. It was a strange, empty place, all white and endless. The Briton was confused. Usually minds were riddled with thoughts and memories shooting in every direction. Tony's however was… devoid.

_What the hell?_

_"… Fuck…"_

Arthur whirled around at the voice that faded in and out as if it were carried on the wind. He braced himself. Who knew what he would find inside the alien's foreign brain? "Who's there?" he demanded.

_"… I can't move. That guy really stuck me good. Sonofabitch. If he thinks he's gonna kill me that easily…"_

Arthur was dumbstruck. "Alfred?" _How can I hear him?_ He moved toward the sound. "Alfred! Can you hear me? Where the hell are you? Alfred!"

But as deep as he delved, he could never reach wherever the voice was coming from and it eventually died out. Then he heard another.

 _"I'm not weak. I'm not weak. I can't let it live. I'll crush it. I'll_ crush _the bloody head!"_

"Feliciano?" _His voice. I've never heard him sound like—_

_"WRONG MOVE, LIMEY RAT."_

Arthur was shunted out of the whiteness, pulled back until everything turned black again and Tony's mind was no more than a speck of light in the distance. The force with which he was being expelled had his energy flickering, struggling to remain intact without being swept away. He clawed at the recesses of Tony's mind as he was yanked through the hole he'd made. But he took hold of the wall and held himself inside, his consciousness straining. It was only then that he found a moment to collect his thoughts and realize something extraordinary.

Tony possessed powerful energy, but not all of it was his own. The alien was stamping the energy with his seal, that was why he hadn't noticed it before, that was why Arthur didn't realize that—

_He's channeling it._

The more he considered it, the more it made sense. The alien had said he was planning to use Arthur's power to increase his might. How else was Tony supposed to obtain another's energy if not to wring it out until there was nothing left? Arthur had heard theories of such abilities, but they had only been theories, produced by sorcerers far less experienced than himself. He had lived for centuries and had concluded that developing a power so complicated was impossible, even for him. But, somehow, Tony had cracked the code, perhaps was born with it—whatever the case, the alien intended to use this ability to enhance his power and was essentially a leech. He stole without regret, not just others' power, but others'choices and lives. He was the worst kind of parasite: one that could _think_.

Voices reached Arthur's consciousness, screaming, whispering, from every direction. He heard voices he knew and voices he didn't and some… that didn't even sound like voices at all. With every speaker, he sensed a surge of energy, many kinds so very different from Tony's own, being drawn in and siphoned off. Like blood to a leech.

 _He's taking from everything,_ Arthur surmised in horrified awe. _From animals, from plants—all of it._ And Tony was reckless with that power, though Arthur doubted greatly that the alien cared what happened to anyone or anything he drained completely of power. Voices began to rapidly fade out of existence one after another, soldiers whose souls had been smothered by Tony's control slipping away to hopefully, _finally_ , be at peace. Indeed, Arthur could feel his own energy wicking away under the immensity of Tony's filched power.

But Arthur refused to be a vessel for him to use and would certainly not stand by until he heard the last voice of a fellow nation extinguished. He had identified the source of Tony's power: essentially, everything. As intimidating as it sounded to oppose power so vast, Arthur knew there was a way to stop it. There had to be.

Frustration flooded through him as he allowed himself to be thrown from Tony's mind, but he had to take time to build his strength. Tony appeared miffed about Arthur's intrusion, although his smugness overpowered it. He stared Arthur down, extending teasing tendrils of energy to brush with derision against the Briton's meager defense.

"You've discovered the source of my strength," the alien said. "That should frighten you. The fact that it doesn't only proves how boundless your idiocy is."

Arthur ignored him and continued to focus on concentrating his power. This wouldn't be any easy task. He needed all the focus that he could muster, and for that he needed time. "Feliciano!" he yelled. The Italian didn't respond, hunched over and trembling, held back by Tony. "Feliciano, listen to me. You need to abort that message. _That message can't go out_. Do you hear me? You can't be weak now!"

Arthur had expected the anger in Feliciano to roar to life with his words like it had before, but the Italian remained how he was, as if he hadn't even heard him. Tony laughed.

"There's no going back once a man becomes weak. Once he throws away his pride, he has nothing left to protect him." Tony sat back in his chair, as cocky as ever, eyes flashing. "And human pride is so easy to break. Prove to them that their foundation is lacking, and everything crumbles. So pitifully fragile—glass could scarcely compare."

Arthur was prepared to try again, but there was a _whump_ across the room. Alfred had collapsed.

And just like that, all sense and scheming fled Arthur. His defenses began to waver. He yelled for Alfred to look at him, to get up, hurled curses at a pleased-looking Tony, and would have continued in the same manner—if it weren't for Alfred saying, "Arthur," in a reassuring sort of way. The American rolled to his knees, hands still grasped over the handle of the knife in his stomach. His eyes connected with Arthur's.

"Artie," he said, understanding in his gaze. "Now."

Many things happened at once.

Alfred pulled his hand from his stomach in a great arc, a trail of dark blood following the path of the blade. More gushed from Alfred's belly, and Arthur yelled, "You blasted _idiot_!" But Alfred ignored him and, as the Briton extended his mind to magically bind the wound, he shouted, "Feliciano!" The Italian turned just in time to see something sharp and metallic glinting in the red light, spinning end over end toward him. Feliciano _knew_ he couldn't catch it, had never caught anything like this in his entire life, but his arm seemed to know what do, and in an instant he had a knife and it was just what he needed, all he needed. Tony's energy was so focused on Arthur and weakened by Alfred's sudden outburst that Feliciano could tug himself free and finish the task of dragging Jeanne over to him by the legs. The woman was dead, but the monster inside her certainly wasn't. He could see it squirming, scratching, the head twisting and pushing with violent haste. It seemed like it could sense Feliciano's intent and wriggled all the more furiously, blood spilling out around it. An awful squelching sound met the Italian's ears when the creature managed to squeeze its head free.

Suddenly aware of what Feliciano would do, Tony swiveled around. "Hold it right there, you brat!"

The alien flicked a finger and flicked it again, and again, and again. But nothing happened. Only then did he notice Arthur's presence pushing against his defenses. The chair swiveled again. "Now, Arthur, where are your manners? Don't you know it's not polite to _interrupt_?" Tony enunciated with a harsh jab to Arthur's consciousness, making the Briton fall back just a bit in his siege. But Arthur kept pushing, kept enduring, refused to be beaten. Because this was his last chance—his only chance.

He drew back and let Tony believe that he was weakening, buying his time until he had enough strength to pierce the alien's formidable wall again—then, he struck. Tony was not ready for this. He scrambled to cover the most intimate parts of his mind. Before, Arthur hadn't known what to look for until he was too far out of Tony's mind to search. Now, however, he had a plan. He rooted around, trying to ignore all the pleading, agonized voices coming at him from every direction as more and more energy was drained from them, tried to ignore the fact that more and more voices were disappearing every second. He was pulled back many times, as if Tony had a grip on his ankles but not enough leverage to move him completely. Arthur clawed his way defiantly deeper, in, in, _in_ , and then he found—

 _This is it_ , Arthur thought with awe. He had come to the center of Tony's consciousness, barely hanging on by a thread. He had not saved up enough energy to last so deep in the alien's mind—that, at least, was helpful information. But all the more helpful was the thick ball of energy Arthur had finally come across. He could not see the energy Tony was drawing from others, but he could feel it to the extent that he had no trouble envisioning it: Tony's stored and stolen energy was a writhing sphere at his center, composed of several ribbon-like strands of energy, all of which had certain features that set them apart. Although Arthur could not see it, he could sense a sort of funnel drawing more ribbons in and adding them to the squirming mass and another siphoning off strips of energy to fuel Tony's power. The level of sound here was deafening; the voices shouted as if they were speaking directly into Arthur's ears, their very souls being slowly but surely drawn from them, their sense of being disappearing with the loss of each strand of self. Once Arthur had the image ingrained in his mind, he let himself be extracted, returning to himself to see Tony looking more murderous than the Briton had ever seen him. But Arthur didn't care. He had all he needed. He knew what he had to do.

Arthur's heart did a backflip at the thought, continuing to amass his power nonetheless. He needed everything he had for this. There was a moment during which he hesitated, his nerves getting the better of him, and his conscience screaming for him to back out, to come up with something else. He saw one of the soldiers drive his fist into Alfred's head, knocking him to the floor. More blood spilled out from between the fingers clutching at the wound in his stomach, and Arthur forgot his doubts and fears. This was for Alfred and Feliciano. This was for everyone.

_"Do not do it, comrade."_

Arthur's determination broke for a split second. _Ivan?_

_"You do not know if it will work. It is not worth—"_

_It_ will _work,_ Arthur assured him, saying it as if he was also trying to assure himself. Ivan sounded weak and far away, but the fact that his consciousness could reach Arthur was enough to tell the Briton that he was in decent condition. _It_ will _work. I don't care what it's worth. I have to do it. There's no other way._

For a moment, it sounded as if Ivan would protest further, but the Russian merely gave a thoughtful pause and said, _"Do what you must."_

Ivan's tone indicated that he knew nothing he said would stop him, and Arthur respected such consideration, almost expected it from his time spent with Ivan. What he wasn't expecting was an aura of warmth emanating from the Russian. Warmth for Arthur and everything they had shared.

Arthur felt his throat tighten, but he maintained his resolve. _Thank you, Ivan. Look after Alfred for me, will you? Lord knows he needs a stable disciplinarian somewhere in his life. Take good care of him._ Then Arthur added after some thought, _And don't you ever hurt him._

There was a note of amusement in Ivan's voice when he next spoke. A sad sort of note. _"I will not let anyone hurt him, just as I will not allow myself to hurt him. You know better than anyone how long I have loved him."_

 _I do,_ Arthur admitted. _But don't let that be your excuse._

_"It will not. Is there… anything you would like me to tell anyone?"_

Arthur knew what Ivan was insinuating, and, as horrible as it was, he was glad that they had reached a mutual understanding. _Yes. Tell Francis… tell the frog that I said 'I do.'_ Arthur's voice broke, and he couldn't believe this was happening _now_ , when he needed as much strength as he could muster. But somewhere deep down, he couldn't bring himself to care. _A thousand times over, 'I do.'_

If Ivan had any clue what Arthur was talking about, he didn't mention it. And Arthur was glad for that. _"До скорой встречи, comrade."_

_You will, mate. Someday. Hopefully a long time from now._

_"I shall await that day with anticipation."_

Arthur felt his audacious side reemerge for the first time in months. Perhaps the last. _Of course you will._

No more needed to be said between them. They both knew it was time.

Alfred was still curled up on the ground and bleeding. Arthur extended a tendril of his mind and sewed up the wound just enough to alleviate the blood flow. Tony attempted to wriggle further through his defensive wall, and Arthur was forced to retreat. Having felt something peculiar happen with his injury, Alfred sat up, pulled his hands away from his belly, wondered at the lack of blood, and looked up at Arthur.

"Go!" Arthur yelled before breaking through his own defenses and engaging Tony's power head-on.

Alfred at first was confused about what Arthur wanted him to do, his head still swimming with his beating. But then he heard the clock say, _"2 minutes and 0 seconds. 1 minute and 59 seconds. 58… 57…"_ and something in him clicked.

"Feli!" Alfred shouted, and this time the Italian looked up. He was ghostly pale, his hand white-knuckled around the knife. "You can do it!"

Feliciano at first had the instinctual urge to ask, "Do what?" because for all of his life he had been completely incapable. But when he saw Alfred struggle to his feet, wound still dribbling, to meet the soldiers still hellbent to break every bone in his body, saw Arthur, fingers digging into the cement, veins standing out in his head and neck, eyes squeezed shut and teeth clenched in an agonized attempt to thwart Tony, he couldn't bring himself to hesitate like he usually would. All those accusations came rushing back to him—his incompetence, his obliviousness, his helplessness, _"You're weak. WEAK."_ And that was all he needed.

He looked at the knife in his hand, sharp, serrated, still dripping blood. Alfred's blood. Something coiled inside him the likes of which he had never felt before. Like a snake preparing to strike.

_Looks like this knife needs some new blood on it._

Just then, the monster tore from Jeanne—ugly, red, its skin so translucent the veins and arteries beneath were visible. It looked the same as any ordinary human, except for the fact that it was practically a medical model. It peered up at Feliciano and gave a piercing shriek, tongue snaking out to wet its lips at the sight of its first meal. A sickening _squelch_ , more blood, and one of its hands was free, grasping, clawing, trying to pull itself out. And then it did something peculiar.

Its head began to grow paler, until it appeared as if it was frosting over. Feliciano watched the paleness spread, all the veins and arteries and elaborate array of muscles disappearing beneath it. It reminded Feliciano of something. Butterflies, as stupid as it sounded. Perhaps he really _was_ not fit for this…

The monster screeched so loudly that Feliciano could swear his ears were bleeding. But he had expected a protest when he had driven the blade into the hybrid's neck. He pulled it free, watching the blood spurt out and the thing writhing, plunging it back in before he could even think of what he had done. Because he wasn't stupid. He had figured it out: the butterfly had emerged from its cocoon. And now it's wings were drying.

The skin had ceased to harden, the monster's body burdened by the constant pain coursing through it. What skin Feliciano could feel brushing against his knuckles with each downward stroke was as hard as diamond.

Ten stabs, twenty stabs, and still the thing screamed. It was the most horrible, wretched sound Feliciano had ever heard. Buckets of blood seemed to burst from it, puddling on the floor, turning Feliciano's shoes red. Thirty, forty… it just wouldn't _die_ …

"Get off me you fucking _sonofabitch_!"

Alfred rammed himself against the nearest soldier as hard as he could, sending the man stumbling. He ran toward Tony's chair, fists clenched and ready to end it, but an arm curled around his neck and he was yanked backward. Choking and struggling to maintain his footing, Alfred twisted, clawing at the arm, swearing. He bit down until he tasted blood, the soldier giving a pained wail and kicking Alfred's feet out from under him as he loosened his grip. Alfred had been pulling away so hard that he nearly fell face-first into the floor, catching himself just barely. He pushed himself into a crouch, clutching his throbbing wound as the soldier he had shoved came at him once again. Alfred groaned and snagged the man's ankle. It was obvious that the soldier hadn't expected Alfred to grab him, hesitating with his punch just long enough for Alfred to roll onto his back and aim a kick at the soldier's kneecap. Alfred bit his lip when he felt the bone cave inward, and the soldier gave a harsh, withering cry before crumpling to the floor in agony.

Alfred lay there for a moment, catching his breath, but it was a moment too long. A burst of pain rattled his skull and made him see white, but dizzy though he was he made it a priority to roll out of the way of the other soldier's next kick. Alfred tried several times to get to his feet, but the soldier's attacks were coming so fast that it was an effort for him just to dodge.

"Is… _this_ what it means to have power? Huh?" he yelled, frustration eating at him. He was determined to make that fucker in the chair react if he couldn't get near enough to knock him out. He glanced at Tony. Nothing. The alien's eyes were closed, fingers steepled, looking far too comfortable, considering Arthur appeared to be fighting his way uphill with a half ton boulder strapped to his back. It made Alfred sick and angrier. Another kick. Alfred promptly scuttled to one side. "Power means—that you can have—guard dogs— _fuck_ —defend your scrawny ass? You said you were—all-powerful— _motherfu—_ well, show me! We're too much for you—t-to handle, and that's why— _goddamn, you bitch_ —th-that's why you called two more guys in. Where's— _urgh_ —that control now, huh? You claim to know a lot, but obviously—you don't know that power can be deadly. It can make someone— _shit_ —careless!"

Alfred jumped out of the soldier's range and managed to scramble to his feet in the time it took for the man to turn and aim. He grabbed the soldier by the ankle and twisted until he heard a _pop_. The man yelped and, in his attempt to wrench himself free, slipped and plummeted to the floor.

Alfred crouched down and held the man's arms down with his knees, straddling his chest and punching him in the face. His fist came away bloody and stinging, but before he could deal the next blow, something thin wrapped around his neck, pulling backward. Alfred was forced to follow, dragged from the soldier as the other attempted to garrote him. He thrashed and gagged, but he was yanked onto his back, caught by the throat. Twisting and clawing at the wire that was slicing into his neck. The soldier he had punched pushed himself up and bore down on him, limping, but Alfred flailed his legs and he kept his distance. Alfred continued to struggle, turning his head, feeling warm blood drip down his neck. Then the soldier choking him dug his heel into Alfred's wound.

Alfred howled, the pain such a shock to his body that all he could do for a minute was lay there. His muscles on temporary shutdown, he could do nothing as the garrote was pulled from his throat, blood trailing, and he was flipped onto his stomach and held down. Alfred grunted as a knee was pressed between his shoulder blades, grimacing into the floor. _Damn._ The fucker must have popped his knee back in. Boots clicked beside him, and the next second he was snatched up by his hair. He felt the cut in his neck ooze more blood.

"Watch," the soldier ordered him, the other sitting on Alfred's back. And Alfred did watch. He had no choice.

_Damn—it's so bloody dense…_

Arthur pushed his way through Tony's mind, finding himself met with intense barriers. As white and empty as the space seemed, it was buzzing with energy. It was like walking through a windstorm. Arthur was pushed left and right as he struggled to find the spot in which he had seen the funnel. The voices seemed louder now, more desperate. It was deafening, and Arthur thought he would be thrust back out just from the force of their despair. Tony's mind was an endless expanse with no definable features to guide Arthur to his destination. Five minutes in, and he cursed himself for letting Tony expel him when he'd had the funnel in sight. And the more he rooted around the more immense Tony's presence became. Every now and then Arthur would feel a tug, just a small one. But it was obvious that there was more power behind it. Tony was playing with his food, and it was only a matter of time before he decided that he was hungry.

 _Where is it—where the bloody—hell—is it?_ His frustration and panic began to outweigh his resolve. He could feel the tugs growing harder, Tony's presence swelling to the extent that it was difficult for Arthur to even move. All at once, the voices surrounding him seemed to fade a bit, and Tony's voice boomed into existence, nowhere and everywhere at once.

_"YOU ARE A PATHETIC WASTE TO YOUR KIND. YOU THINK YOU ARE BEING NOBLE BY GOING AGAINST ME, BUT YOU ARE MERELY FEEDING YOUR OWN NEED FOR REVENGE. ALL YOU HUMANS CLAIM THAT IN TIMES OF TROUBLE YOU UNITE, BUT IN REALITY YOU SCATTER AND BITE LIKE THE VERMIN YOU ARE. YOU EXIST TO FULFILL YOUR OWN NEEDS, SO BLINDED BY THE URGE THAT YOU CAN'T SEE HOW INSURMOUNTABLE AN OBSTACLE AS LARGE AS I MAY BE—FOREVER SLAVES TO YOUR EMOTIONS. HERE, YOU SHOW YOUR WEAKNESS: UTTER STUPIDITY."_

The tugs became harsher, to the point that for every step Arthur took forward he was pulled three back. Tony's words rumbled through him, seizing his heart and locking it in a vice grip hard enough for him to feel every heartbeat pumping through him, as if his whole body was one huge vein ready to burst.

_"GO ON, THEN. HAVE YOUR REVENGE. LET IT CONSUME YOU LIKE THE MUNDANE CREATURE YOU ARE. BUT IN THE END YOU WILL SEE THAT YOUR DESIRES HAVE TRUMPED YOUR SENSE, AND BY THEN IT WILL BE TOO LATE. JUST ANOTHER INSECT LOST AMONG THE CARCASSES, IDENTITY AND ALL. NO ONE WILL REMEMBER YOU AND NO ONE WILL MOURN YOU. THE WORLD WILL GO ON, AND THE HUMANS THAT WILL SURVIVE WILL EVENTUALLY FORGET MANKIND'S PRETENTIOUS WAYS. THEIR CHILDREN AND THEIR CHILDREN'S CHILDREN WILL ONLY KNOW THE PROPER PLACE OF HUMANS AND ABSTAIN FROM REVELING IN HUMAN ARROGANCE AND FOOLISHNESS. HISTORY WILL BEGIN AGAIN, ONE IN WHICH YOU AND YOUR FOLLIES WILL NOT BE MENTIONED. IDIOTS, AFTER ALL, DO NOT DESERVE SUCH REVERENCE. I AM SURE YOU AGREE WITH THIS NOTION."_

_Come on, dammit,_ come on. Arthur continued to push, trying to keep himself together as Tony picked at his energy, caressing and teasing, like a black widow disguised as an enticing lover. Arthur could feel the alien's power swelling, a tsunami building at sea. He knew that another good yank would do him in, that he would be sucked out and there would be nothing he could do to stop it. That would be it. He _knew_ he could not let that happen.

And he wouldn't.

Sixty, seventy, eighty—still alive, _it was still alive_ , gushing rivers of red and shrieking like nothing Feliciano had ever heard. By now his whole front half was soaked with blood. It had a strange, pungent odor and was as thick as snot. The hybrids neck was nearly sliced through, and for a few frantic seconds Feliciano feared that he may never kill the thing, that it would crawl out and devour him with its head hanging by nothing more than bloody sinew. Then everything just… stopped.

Feliciano just stared, blade still embedded in the creature's neck, anticipating. Blood dribbled. The body twitched. Feliciano waited for it to stop moving. When the muscles finally gave out, he slowly slid the knife free, more blood bubbling out. He lowered his eyes to inspect his hands, the red blood on them eerily resembling water in the equally red light, when he saw something jerk out of corner of his eye and looked up.

A liquid explosion, not unlike that of a massive bubble of tar bursting, blinded Feliciano. Sizzling pieces of flesh and globs of blood clotted by heat adhered to his face. It was hot, almost burning hot, and it took a great effort for Feliciano to peel his eyes open due to the amount of sticky goop cementing his eyelids together. He could taste it on his lips, the hybrid's remains mixed with Jeanne's. He was too relieved to be sick. The monster was dead. Finally.

Stunned, he sat there, his mind blank. He had long dropped the knife he had been holding, and his muscles felt like they had melted. His heart was sore from beating so hard and so fast. It hurt to breathe too deeply.

_"Abort it!"_

Feliciano whipped his head around to see Arthur, gritting his teeth and grimacing, muscles bunched, fighting the contortions that were attacking his body. The Briton's eyes were screwed shut, but somehow his gaze was piercing through him. "The message! Stop it!"

Feliciano just stared, feeling like he was floating. Everything depended on him, _everything_. That had never happened before. How could they ask for something so risky? They knew he couldn't do brave stuff like that. Why were they asking him to? Why did they think he could ever—

"Goddammit, Feli!" Alfred yelled. "Stop sitting around and _stop that fucking clock_!"

That was when he heard it: _"1 minute and 0 seconds. 59… 58… 57…"_

Feliciano didn't think anymore, he just did. He didn't think about what the consequences would be if he got to his feet. He didn't think about the possibility that Tony might throw him onto his back. He didn't think about the slime dripping down his face nor of the acidic taste it left in his mouth. He didn't think about the soldiers holding Alfred down, one of which was preparing to stop him. All he knew was that the numbers projected were counting down far too quickly and that he _would_ see Ludwig again. The man's smile was simply too bright to leave behind. If Feliciano died then the world would be devoid of that smile, and then what kind of savior would he be?

_"49… 48…"_

Feliciano arrived at the control board and one of the soldiers made to attack. But Alfred threw out his arms and grabbed what he could. It was enough. The soldier went tumbling down, twisting and kicking. Alfred got a heel to his face, but he only tightened his grip. "The switch, Feliciano!"

"The switch… the switch…" Feliciano bit his lip, his hands fumbling over the flashing buttons and glinting knobs. His fingers trembled as they sought out their quarry, brushing against several switches before he found the one that jump-started his memory.

_"43… 42…"_

The soldier on Alfred's back seized his hair and slammed his face down into the floor. The shock should have been enough for Alfred to release the other soldier's ankle. But Alfred's fingers locked in place, squeezing hard as his head throbbed. The soldier yanked on his hair again, intending to smash him into the floor again, but Alfred jabbed him in the back with his heel, knocking him forward. Before the man could regain his balance, Alfred wriggled until he had freed enough of his body to turn onto his side. The soldier astride him grabbed him about the neck and wrung it few good times. Alfred choked and soon found his hands empty and the soldier he had been holding onto flying toward him. He threw out his arms and caught the soldier by the leg, using all the strength he had to pull him down. The man had been running so fast that it wasn't hard to unbalance him. He went flying into his comrade, effectively bowling him over and freeing Alfred's legs. He scrambled to his feet and didn't take the time to catch his breath before he aimed a kick at the closest man's chin. The soldier's head snapped back and without warning the other sprung at him like a spider. Once again, Alfred was pinned to the floor. Hands shot to his throat, where he could already feel bruises forming. He snatched up the man's wrists before he got the chance to strangle him, gritting his teeth as his broken fingers sent stabs of pain coursing through him, holding the soldier at bay as best he could while he caught sight of the other recovering out of the corner of his eye. The soldier he had kicked pushed himself to his feet and cut a furious path toward him, something glinting in his hand. _Shit!_

_"35… 34…"_

Feliciano flicked the switch. The clock kept counting, bellowing out the numbers: _"33…32…"_

_Why?!_

He moved it back and forth feverishly, frantically. "It's not working," he muttered. He flicked it again. " _It's not working_!"

_"REQUEST TO ABORT RECEIVED."_

Feliciano's heart nearly stopped as the voice boomed and the ticking stopped. The numbers had disappeared from the screen, but they were soon replaced with—

_"REQUIRED SECURITY QUESTION."_

_WHY?!_

Words appeared onscreen, by far the most intimidating Feliciano had ever seen:

 

_"Long before time realized_

_Born was I from Heaven's eyes_

_Swept along by Fate, I flew_

_All spitting fire and icy dew_

_Through brooding dark and empty plains_

_Soon in life I found my bane_

_Colliding, pushing, breaking, storming_

_A new generation thus was forming_

_A piece of me and a piece of them_

_Scattered was I, root and stem_

_But the seed I left made to grow_

_The pieces together began to sew_

_Giving birth to life and death as one_

_The race for perfection brutally won_

_I am You_

_You are Me_

_I am Near_

_I am Far_

_I am Old_

_I am Young_

_I am Sight_

_I am Sound_

_I am Taste, Touch, Winter, Spring_

_I am small, but I am Everything."_

 

Feliciano's heart leaped into a harsh tattoo again. _A riddle? How am I supposed to… I don't think I can…_

A thumbnail of the clock popped up in the upper right corner of the screen and continued its steady boom of, _"26… 25…"_

 _Where? Where?_ Arthur used his last great burst of energy to propel himself out of Tony's grip. He flew forward, and Tony laughed.

 _"THERE IS NO REASON FOR ME TO STOP YOU. THE HUMAN RACE WILL DESTROY ITSELF. IT ALREADY HAS. YOU CONDEMN 'CRIMES AGAINST HUMANITY.' SO YOU HAVE CONCLUDED THAT THERE IS A_ JUST _WAY OF KILLING EACH OTHER? YOU HAVE SPIRALED SO FAR DOWN, THERE IS NO HOPE FOR YOU. IN A WAY, I AM DOING YOU A FAVOR—KILLING YOU OFF BEFORE YOU HAVE THE CHANCE TO SUFFER ANYMORE. I AM SURE YOU WILL AGREE THAT THIS IS A_ JUST _METHOD?"_

_Where? Where the bloody hell is it?!_

_"PITIFUL, ISN'T IT, THAT THE GREATEST ENEMY HUMANS HAVE ARE THEMSELVES?"_

_Where? WHERE?_

Something flickered in the corner of his vision, and he shot toward it without a second thought. If it was a trick, his efforts were wasted—there was no time to reorganize now.

_"CAN YOU HEAR THE SOUND OF YOUR WORLD COMING TO AN END?"_

Ticking as loud as thunder roared through the endless recesses of Tony's mind, cutting through Arthur's body and shaking him to his core.

_"20… 19…"_

Voices met him, echoing from up ahead. Arthur kept pushing, his heart pounding to the pace of the clock. He could sense energy, a lot of it, jumbled yet distinguishable. And something was swirling, sucking more power in before spitting it out…

_The funnel!_

_Goddammit… mother… fucker…!_

Alfred ground his teeth as he finally succeeded in grabbing the wrist of the soldier sitting atop him. He wasted no time sinking his teeth into the man's hand. The soldier yelped and wrenched his hand away, Alfred spitting blood in his direction. The soldier recovered and reached for him again. Alfred was ready for him. He linked his fingers and bashed the man in the head. The blow could have been made by a cannonball, Alfred was so determined to get away so he could carry out what he came there to do. No way had he traveled this far, gone through so much hell, seen two of his children die, just to be taken down by a pair of brainwashed, zombified cronies.

The soldier clutched his head, groaning. Alfred pitched him to the side and the man fell, his head cracking off the hard floor when he failed to catch himself. Before Alfred could confirm that his opponent was incapacitated, another kicked him in the back and sent him flying onto his stomach. Alfred's hands shot out, and he pushed himself up just in time to dodge a blow from the remaining soldier. Alfred responded in kind, but he forgot his mortality—he didn't possess as much endurance as he usually did—and was too slow to catch him, even though the man was injured. Another swipe… yet again, a miss. The fucker was dancing circles around him, and the clock was still counting down, louder than ever, _"15… 14…"_

Feliciano's felt like his stomach was made of lead. He read the poem over and over again, but each time he did it seemed as if it was written in a language that he had never seen or heard of before. It might as well be cuneiform for all he could decipher.

 _Think, think… you've done this before._ Feliciano wrung his hands nonetheless. Beads of sweat gathered and rolled down his face. _Your country's history is rich with this kind of stuff. Sphinx riddles from Papa Rome, poems during the Renaissance—there's no excuse for you not to know this. You_ know _this, Feli. Come on, think!_

His eyes locked onto the poem, and he forced himself to look at it like he was taught to look at poems: each line was a metaphor, an expression of great emotion, a piece that, when combined with others, created a puzzle the proportions of which could encompass the universe. As intimidating as that seemed, however, there was always a way to figure it out. It just required a different rhythm of thinking. Once Feliciano caught onto that rhythm, he would be able to decipher the riddle as easily as walking down a familiar road to a destination he had been to many times but had never recognized as special. His eyes scanned the first line of the poem, muttering the words to himself under his breath, letting them roll around in his mouth, getting a feel for them.

" _'Long before time realized…'_ "

 _Before time… did time_ realize _something? No, that doesn't make sense… 'time realized'… 'realized'… 'Long before time realized'… long before… long before time was created… before it was recorded!_

The scope of the poem had been revealed—and, fuck, was it a big one. The riddle was about something that dated back billions and billions of years. He took a deep breath and tried to ignore the ticking of the clock pounding against his eardrums.

" _'Born was I from Heaven's eyes…'_ "

 _'Heaven's eyes'… 'Heaven's eyes'…_ They had to be key words, they _had_ to be. They seemed too metaphorical, too choicy, to be anything else. They had to have something to do with that enormous scope. _'Heaven's eyes.'_ It reminded him of old Italian poems that referred to something natural as divine. _What is it describing? In older days, the sky was called 'the heavens.' Maybe… but eyes… eyes in the… sky…?_

It was as if Feliciano's head was a bell, and someone struck it, sending realization ringing throughout his body, making his hair stand on end and the tips of his fingers tingle. His lips formed into a single word:

" _Stars_."

Now he was onto something.

_"13… 12…"_

_Reach that… bloody… funnel… goddammit!_

Tony hadn't bothered to catch up with him. As far as Arthur could sense, the alien was deliberately sending content signals in his direction just to put him in a state of unease. But Arthur knew as soon as the alien realized what his intentions were, he would have only a few seconds to act before he was thrown out for good. This was the only chance he would get. He took a deep breath.

_Well… here goes everything._

_"11… 10…"_

_It's talking about the universe and stars._ Feliciano groaned. _Please let the answer be something smaller…_

" _'Swept along by Fate, I flew,'_ " he muttered, mind whirring. " _'All spitting fire and icy dew_.' " Whatever it was traveled, and it was obviously destined to end up somewhere. _So it must be part of history somehow._ It was also composed of 'spitting fire' and 'icy dew.' _What spits fire in space? And 'icy dew'…? How can something be on fire and icy at once?_ Feliciano plied the churning waters of his mind, hoping that he'd had the sense to save something about space matter in his memory. Then again, he did always forget things…

 _Hot and cold at once… hot and cold… and it flew…_ The only thing Feliciano knew that flew in space were meteorites or asteroids or some other bit of space rock. At that, he instantly dug up a long-buried memory about a world meeting… Alfred had been bragging about how NASA had found water on meteorites… _"Yeah, totally! I know, it's cool, isn't it? I mean, how does a flying piece of space junk have water on it when it's on fire?"_

Arthur had rolled his eyes and said, _"It only catches fire when it flies close to a planet's atmosphere. The force at which it is pulled by gravity increases it's velocity, and—"_

 _"Yeah, yeah, whatever. The point is it's fucking_ outta this world _, right?"_

_"America, shut up before we lose anymore braincells."_

The air that he had been holding in his lungs longer than he had known rushed out in one, enlightened breath. "A meteorite."

" _'Through brooding dark and empty plains, soon in life I found my bane.'_ " So the meteorite flew through space—that was definitely dark and mostly empty. And at one point it found an enemy… but what could possibly oppose a gigantic, flying rock? It reminded Feliciano suddenly of diamonds. How the only way to scratch them was to use another diamond… _It hit something… another meteorite! Of course!_ The next line was, _" 'Colliding, pushing, breaking, storming.' "_ That had to be it. _'A new generation thus was forming'… ? Now, what does_ that _mean?_

_"10 SECONDS TO LAUNCH. 9…"_

"C'mon, you fuckin' pussy!"

Alfred swung again, but his efforts produced the same result; imbuing more confidence in his opponent. The soldier wasn't doing anything but dodging, and all too late Alfred realized it was wasting his energy to maintain his attacks. All he needed was for the man to hit him, to get close enough so that Alfred could grab him and do what he had been wanting to do ever since they began this dance. He decided to give it one last shot.

He kicked instead of swiped, and that caught the soldier off-guard. The man wobbled as he moved out of the way, giving Alfred just enough time to grab him by his vest and push him up against the wall. The soldier raised his hands, sinking his nails into the skin on Alfred's arms and pulling. Alfred clenched his teeth, giving a frustrated growl as the man twisted, almost hard enough to escape. Alfred jammed the toe of his boot into the back of the man's knee and he staggered. Before he could find his balance, Alfred turned the soldier around and shoved his face into the wall.

"This is where it ends," Alfred said, digging his fingers into the man's scalp. He grabbed a fistful of hair, yanked the soldier's head back, then slammed it into the wall.

_"8… 7…"_

_A new generation… generation… but if it was before time, it was before life, right? Then how could a generation even exist?_ Feliciano chewed his lip. _It can't be anything living, then. If two meteorites crashed into each other all they could create would be… rocks. A generation of rocks…? What?_ He read over the next two lines, hoping it would help him solve the one above them.

" _'A piece of me and a piece of them, scattered was I, root and stem.'_ "

_The meteorites broke into pieces and scattered… okay… what next?_

" _'But the seed I left began to grow, the pieces together began to sew.'_ "

 _Something new was created. I've already figured that out!_ What _is it?_ The skin broke beneath his teeth.

_"6… 5…"_

_The funnel… yes!_

Arthur reached the spiraling energy, the voices ringing in his ears. His heart was pounding far away in his body across the room. It was pounding so hard he could feel it even while deep within the boundaries of Tony's consciousness.

 _All right, then…_ Arthur anchored himself and used all the energy he brought with him to form a small funnel from his consciousness to his body to transport more power. He could only hope that Tony wouldn't notice what he was up to until he was at half power. Any earlier and he would be vulnerable to attack. But, of course, this was Tony's mind. He would be able to sense Arthur's energy flowing through his system. It wouldn't be long. Arthur would have to be quick.

_"4…"_

_Come on, come on, think! The meteorites crashed together and broke apart. Then together they formed something. Something out of rock… 'Giving birth to life and death as one"…? But nothing was alive! And how could life and death be one thing? Argh, think, Feli! 'The race for perfection brutally won.' Perfection? Two rocks crashing together makes something perfect? No, that can't be it… it makes… it makes… a_ planet _!_

_"3…"_

Alfred slammed the soldier's head into the wall a few more times before letting him slide down the wall, leaving a bloody smear in his wake. "Feli, _stop that goddamn thing already_!" He made to run toward the control board, but hands pulled him back. At first he thought it was the soldier he had just smashed against the wall— _No goddamn way—_ but he twisted out of the man's grip long enough to turn around. _The other one! They're like fucking roaches!_

Feliciano read the next eight lines, his heart feeling too big for his chest. _'I am Taste, Touch, Winter, Spring. I am small, but I am Everything.' But_ nothing _is everything! What kind of riddle is this?!_ He forced himself to take a deep breath and cleared his mind. He told himself to ignore the clock ticking down, but there was no ignoring its booms pounding through his body. _Okay, let's start at the top: the meteorite flew through space and crashed into another meteorite. They broke apart and created a planet. And life. Earth! And there's also death on Earth. Life is very rare in the universe, so it had to be a perfect sequence of events to make it happen. Of course, um… but the earth can't be everything. Wait, what was that thing about stars…?_

_"2…"_

_'Born was I from Heaven's eyes.' Stars. The meteorites were born from… stars? No, that can't be right… did the meteorite have something on it? Something from the stars?_

_"Dust."_

Feliciano stiffened. "L-Lovino…?"

 _"Dust,"_ Lovino whispered. Feliciano could feel his presence, his hand on his shoulder. _"Stardust, Feli. Goddammit, it's stardust!"_

 _That's right!_ Feliciano recalled what Ludwig had said long ago, when Feliciano had dragged him out to go stargazing.

 _"Stars release gases constantly from their surfaces,"_ the German had said. Feliciano remembered him appearing annoyed when first brought out the field in the middle of nowhere when he'd had 'work to do.' Right then, though, he had a look of awe. _"When they die, all sorts of elements are blown through the universe, sometimes for light-years. They can end up on all sorts of space rock."_

_"Whoa. Really, Germany?"_

_"Ja. It's called stardust. And it's a part of everything in the universe."_

_"Even us?"_

_"Ja, Italy. Even us. We are stardust."_

_Such a tiny substance,_ Feliciano thought. _Even though it's small, it changed everything._

_"1…"_

"FELICIANO!" Alfred shouted.

 _"Flip the damn switch, fucktard!"_ Lovino howled.

_"LAUNCH INITIATED. ACTIVATING BOOST—"_

_"No!"_ Feliciano shoved the switch over with his entire hand. There were a few moments when the clock turned to zero and the screen flashed red and a blinding white. Then the screen returned to its original hue. Big, bold letters appeared.

_"LAUNCH TERMINATED."_

Feliciano was so relieved that he couldn't hold himself up. His bones turned to rubber and he slid down the control board until he sat shivering and staring on the floor.

_I… I did it… thank you, Lovi._

_"I didn't save your ass just have it killed,"_ Lovino said. His presence swelled around Feliciano. _"And if I see you up here any time soon, I'll kick that ass up over your shoulders. Hear me?"_

Feliciano didn't answer. He just laughed breathlessly and took comfort in his brother's warmth until it faded away.

Hearing Feliciano divert the message gave Arthur the boost of confidence he needed to pull all of the energy from his body. All of his being was now in Tony. If the alien attacked him too much, it would be extinguished, his body would be an empty shell, and he would be sucked into the Void.

_Nothing I've never encountered before._

_"OH, SO YOU THINK YOU CAN BEST ME?"_ Tony's voice bellowed. _"YOUR ARROGANCE KNOWS NO BOUNDS."_

Arthur was still drawing energy from his body, the last trickles trailing through his makeshift funnel. Tony's energy pulsed around him, but he was only jostled slightly. It seemed that the alien was too vain to realize how dire his situation was now. Apparently he underestimated Arthur's abilities. Arthur planned to use that to his advantage.

_"AS MUCH AS I ENDORSE ETIQUETTE, I HOPE YOU WILL UNDERSTAND IF I PLAY WITH MY FOOD BEFORE I EAT IT."_

The jostle turned into a hard nudge and then a definite _shove._ Arthur's anchors were uprooted, and before he could build up his barriers, the some of his energy stores were exposed. Tony's energy went from derisive to infuriated.

_"YOU DARE TO MAKE A STAND AGAINST SUCH A SUPERIOR RIVAL? WELL, I HAVE BEEN IN NEED OF SOME ENTERTAINMENT. ALL OF THESE REBEL RATS HAVE BEEN TOO EASY TO FINISH OFF, BUT YOU ARE ESPECIALLY TROUBLESOME. I WAS GETTING BORED."_

Arthur didn't answer. He would waste too much energy doing so, and it wasn't worth his breath anyway. The more Tony talked, the bigger his ego got. And egos were huge distractions. Arthur needed Tony as distracted as he could be.

Now that he knew Feliciano had stopped the message from being sent, Arthur could focus on killing Tony. He knew he wasn't nearly strong enough to attack the alien when he had so much power, but if he cut off his stolen supply he may just stand a chance.

Tony shoved him again, almost breaking his barriers. He knew Tony could very well shatter his walls, but as long as the alien was receiving an immense amount of energy from foreign sources he wouldn't be quick to finish Arthur off. He did, after all, have the upper hand and planned to utilize it as much as he could. Arthur knew how fuckers like him worked. Tony was almost too predictable and he didn't even know.

_"I REALLY MUST THANK YOU FOR COLLECTING ALL OF YOUR POWER FOR ME. NOW I WILL HAVE LITTLE TROUBLE TAKING IT FROM YOU. FOR BEING THE MOST STUBBORN HUMAN I HAVE EVER FOUGHT, YOU CERTAINLY ARE THE MOST ACCOMMODATING."_

_Almost there…_ Arthur mused. He was readying his energy for a strike. He would have to be accurate on the first try, and he could only predict how much power he needed to sever Tony's exterior lines. He had one chance, and concentration was key.

 _"NO COMEBACK? NO DEFIANCE?"_ Tony sneered, _"I REALLY HAVE BROKEN YOU, HAVEN'T I?"_

_Almost… almost… NOW!_

Arthur held his breath and struck out with all his might. It was fast—like a lightning strike. And it was just enough.

As soon as the thread was cut, the voices disappeared. Tony seethed.

_"YOU IDIOT LIMEY. YOU JUST MADE A BIG MISTAKE."_

_Shit!_ Arthur dodged Tony's first attack, but he knew he wouldn't be able to avoid the alien forever. At some point, he would have to stop and focus his energy in order to take Tony out in a few, decisive strikes. For now, however, he could sense that the alien still had what was left of his stolen power in his reserves. Arthur would have to keep moving and allowing Tony to expend his energy until they were at a somewhat equal level. It was only fair, and it was his only shot.

 _Come on, come on, keep coming at me._ Arthur kept careful track of Tony's power, feeling it go down with every hit he dealt. The more time that passed, the more accurate Tony's strikes became. The development was bittersweet; Tony's strength was depleted enough not to cause as much damage as it usually would at total power, but they were still painful and weakened the Briton's defenses. Arthur was concealing most of his power. If Tony broke down his walls and sensed how much power he was packing before the alien's own power was low enough for him to fight, everything would have been for naught.

Just when Tony's power was getting close to Arthur's goal, the alien made a direct strike at a crack in Arthur's defenses that made part of it crumble. Instantly, the full scope of Arthur's energy was exposed to Tony's senses. Arthur had only seconds to respond before the alien's temper exploded. Seconds to concentrate. Seconds to aim.

_"I CAN'T WAIT TO FEEL YOUR ENERGY COURSING THROUGH MY VEINS. COME AND LET ME DRAIN YOUR POWER!"_

Arthur granted his wish. He released a bolt of energy that sliced through a portion of Tony's consciousness. The alien remained where he was for a moment, as if staring in disbelief. Apparently, he hadn't counted on Arthur's aim being so precise.

 _"OH, IT'S EASY WHEN I STAND STILL,"_ Tony sneered. _"BUT LET'S SEE THAT CONFIDENCE OF YOURS HOLD OUT WHEN I SHOW YOU THE TRUE EXTENT OF MY POWER."_

 _Do it, then,_ Arthur mused, and he knew Tony could hear his thoughts. The Briton's intentions, however, were buried deep and even then quite ignored by the alien. Tony's strength may have been brought down a few notches, but his arrogance still persisted, which was more than enough incentive for Arthur to take him down.

Tony struck out, and Arthur countered, both dodging and preparing for another attack in the short span of a few seconds. Tony was fast and he knew how to utilize his energy in ways Arthur had never seen before. Previously, Arthur had used his experience as an immortal figure to his advantage in magical duels, but now he was unable to predict Tony's next move, his techniques were so foreign. His most dangerous feature was his incredible recovery time. It seemed that every hit was almost immediately followed by another, and by the time Arthur began to heal himself he would be scrambling out of range of another full-power hit.

Arthur tried to dodge as best he could and throw in his own hits, but Tony was simply too fast. _It's no use,_ Arthur thought after another strike sliced through a large part of his defenses and severed a substantial portion of his energy. A few minutes in, and there was nothing he could do but try to get out of the way. As each strike sliced more and more of his energy apart, grew closer and closer to his core, the less and less Arthur was able to gather that severed energy back together. A few more well-aimed hits and Arthur was scattered, nothing between him and Tony's killing blow. Arthur's heart jumped into his throat.

_Bloody hell._

Tony laughed. _"YOU MAY HAVE CUT ME OFF, BUT EVEN THEN I AM STILL TOO MUCH FOR YOU."_ Arthur could feel Tony's power swelling, surrounding him, humming with anticipation. _"A NOBLE ACT WORTH NOTHING IN THE END. YOU TURNED OUT JUST AS EXPENDABLE AS THE REST OF YOUR RACE. ARE YOU PROUD?"_

_"Yes."_

_"HA! I THOUGHT SO. STUBBORN TO THE END. EVEN IN THE FACE OF DEATH YOU REMAIN DEFIANT, NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU ARE SCREAMING INSIDE."_

Arthur's heart seemed to stop beating altogether. _"Yes. You are right. I am screaming inside."_ He could feel the alien's energy churn with satisfaction. _"But I have reason to be proud."_

_"IF YOU THINK THAT I WILL GIVE YOU THE CHANCE TO GIVE YOUR PARTING WORDS, I DON'T BELIEVE IN THAT KIND OF LOWLY SHOW OF SENTIMENT YOU HUMANS LIKE TO INDULGE IN."_

_"I will say my parting words whether you want me to or not,"_ Arthur snapped. _"And you will listen."_

Tony flared with anger. _"TERRIBLY SORRY, BUT I HAVE NO INTEREST IN MUNDANE HUMAN LOGI—"_

 _"Stop your pompous waffling and check your perimeters, will you?"_ Arthur shouted. He could feel his physical form shaking across the room. This was it. _"You're surrounded. You were too engrossed in demeaning and hurting me that you failed to notice my energy is no longer centered."_

_"YOU—"_

_"Listen! You have no room to insult me now. Either shut up and let me kill you quietly or keep on talking and I'll make your death as slow and painful as I possibly can. Which is it, then?"_

Tony was silent for a moment, almost thoughtful, his anger ebbing. It put Arthur on edge. Then the alien said quite calmly, _"YOU ARE WILLING TO OFFER ME MERCY FOR ALL THAT I HAVE DONE TO YOUR FRIENDS, YOUR FAMILY… THE WORLD? EMOTION DRIVES WHAT YOU HUMANS DO. MY SO-CALLED TYRANNY SHOULD BE NOTHING TO YOU. HUMANS ARE CONTROLLED BY SYMPATHY. IT'S PATHETIC, EVEN MORE SO THAT YOU FAIL TO NOTICE._

 _"NOW,_ YOU _LISTEN. YOU MAY HAVE ME CORNERED, BUT IF YOU THINK YOU WILL END THIS YOUR WAY, THINK AGAIN. YOU HAVE FORGOTTEN THAT YOUR EXPERIENCE IS ONLY LIMITED TO EARTHLY KNOWLEDGE. I, HOWEVER, POSSESS KNOWLEDGE YOU COULD NEVER HOPE TO OBTAIN. YOU CAN MAKE THE FIRST MOVE, BUT I GUARANTEE THAT I WILL HAVE THE LAST. GO ON. GIVE ME A REASON."_

Arthur was shaking more than ever now, but he managed to keep his voice steady. He didn't come this far to back out now. _"All right. Here's your bloody reason!"_

Arthur launched his attack. His energy closed around Tony, effectively corralling him and pinning him in place. For a miraculous second, Arthur thought that he had Tony right where he wanted him. Then Tony laughed.

_"WRONG CHOICE."_

Arthur was propelled backward as Tony threw up his barriers and unleashed his energy. He was everywhere at once, jabbing at Arthur from all directions in every way he could imagine. Before he could get himself together and construct an appropriate attack, Tony just… stopped.

 _What the…?_ Arthur cautiously raised his walls and looked around. All he could see was white. _Where the hell is the bastard?_ This couldn't be good…

Arthur had the instinct to keep moving—he felt more exposed staying still. Quiet was all he was met with, and, as calm as it seemed, he was even more tense than before. He knew Tony was lurking somewhere in the empty expanse; it was his consciousness after all. The fact that he could hide his energy so easily and emerge whenever and wherever he wanted scared the absolute shit out of him.

_Am I really doing the right thing?_

_"A HUMAN'S FAITH IS SO EASY TO SHAKE."_

Energy was surrounding him before he could react, and Arthur just barely slid through a gap before he was encircled. He turned and faced the seething, churning mass that was Tony.

 _"THERE IS NO ESCAPE,"_ Tony said. _"YOU ARE MERELY PROLONGING YOUR DEMISE. I HAVE SEALED OFF MY MIND. KEEP RUNNING, AND YOU WILL ONLY BE MET WITH WHITE."_

 _"I have no need to run,"_ Arthur said. _"I've done my running. You can't chase me away anymore. It ends here, Tony. It all ends."_

It unnerved Arthur that he could almost _feel_ Tony's smile. _"GOOD. I WAS GETTING BORED WITH THE CHASE ANYWAY."_

They both released flares of energy that met with a blinding flash of light. Tony pushed with the force of a freight train, slicing through Arthur's energy as clean as a knife. Feet became inches, and Arthur's panic ignited.

Then he remembered Bryce's passion when reading him poems, Ian's drunken voice when he sang at the pubs, Sean's wiseass comments that made Arthur stifle laughs, the feel of Lennox's embrace just before he was stolen away by gunmen, gunmen probably, even then, working for Tony.

Austria was stolen. So was Hungary. Switzerland and Liechtenstein. Ukraine and Belarus. South Korea and Hong Kong. Australia and New Zealand. Sadiq. Prussia. Romano. All of them, stolen from the world, and Alfred and Feliciano the next possible victims.

 _No more. No_ fucking _more!_

An inch, two inches, five. Arthur was pushing Tony back, little by little, slowly but surely. In no time they were evenly matched.

 _"I CAN DO THIS FOREVER,"_ Tony mocked. _"I CAN RENEW MY ENERGY THE LONGER THIS GOES ON. BUT YOU… YOU'LL JUST RUN OUT. AND YOU KNOW WHAT HAPPENS THEN. IT MEANS I WON'T GET TO KILL YOU THE WAY I WANT TO, AND THAT'S NO FUN."_

_"As superior as you—claim—to be—you forgot—one thing."_

_"I HIGHLY DOUBT THAT. BUT I'LL HUMOR YOU."_

_"You forgot the one thing that—makes us different—"_ Arthur growled through clenched teeth. _No turning back. No running. "That makes me—the stronger one—"_

_"OH? AND WHAT IS THAT?"_

_Don't forget my message, Ivan. Or your promise._

The shaking stopped. His rapid heartbeats ceased. Everything was clear. _"I have emotions. I_ care. _And that's something you will never know."_

Arthur gave an almighty push—and it traveled all the way to Tony's consciousness. Splitting energy as thin as spider's silk, Arthur's power cut through until all that was left of Tony's energy was shreds and then flakes. Arthur arrived at Tony's core and paused.

 _"YOU'RE AFRAID,"_ Tony sneered, cocky even on the end of destruction. _"YOU HAVE KNOWN YOU WOULD MEET THIS END THE MOMENT YOU WALKED INTO THIS ROOM. AND NOW, AT THE EDGE OF GLORY, YOU HESITATE. YOUR EMOTIONS CONSTRAIN YOU AGAIN. I TOOK EVERYTHING FROM YOU, AND STILL YOU FEEL FOR ME. HUMANS— WHAT WEAK CREATURES YOU ARE."_

 _"I suppose that depends on your point of view,"_ Arthur said. _"And from where I stand, you took the low ground. I will never forgive that. Maybe now you finally understand human nature—all too late."_

Arthur pierced the heart of Tony's being with a resounding _crack_. An ear-splitting screech rent the air, and there was a rush of wind somewhere in the distance. Within seconds it had reached Arthur, whirling like a hurricane and sweeping him up in its currents. The wind swept away all the white like dust, leaving a deathly black in its wake. It closed in around Arthur, squeezing him down, down, down, folding him in half, in thirds, into the smallest particle. There was a moment when he felt as if he were being sucked inside out, and he lost his ability to breathe. Then he opened his eyes and slowly filled his lungs. Tony was slumped in his chair, limp and hollow. He was dead. It was over.

 _I… did it…_ Arthur mused with a weak smile. _Now I can… rest…_

"Arthur!"

Alfred saw the man shudder across the room, having seemed caught in a trance, stock-still, for the last five minutes. Now his arms had suddenly given out, his body unmoving on the floor. "Arthur! Let me—go—god _damn_ you—!" Alfred ground out as he wrestled the soldier into a chokehold. The man struggled, gagging and clawing, but Alfred _refused_ to be toyed with any longer. As soon as the soldier became too weak to struggle, Alfred worked one hand under the man's chin and wrapped another around his forehead. The soldier seemed to know what was coming and gave one last, futile kick before Alfred snapped his neck. The soldier jerked hard before going boneless. Alfred let him drop to the ground with a _whump_ and stepped over him. He wasn't taking any chances. The soldier would _not_ be getting up again.

"Arthur," Alfred cried and ran toward him. He couldn't see the man breathing, and his knees weakened. He fell and slid across the floor the rest of the way, leaving smears of blood behind him. He could hardly feel it.

"Artie." Alfred put his hand on Arthur's shoulder and shook him almost cautiously. When he didn't respond, Alfred's stomach dropped. "Artie. Artie, are you okay? Artie?"

When Arthur took a deep, albeit withering breath, Alfred felt like crying. But he knew Arthur would be disappointed in him if he did. He wiped his eyes with the heel of his hand as the Briton slowly turned his head to look at him. His eyes opened. They were sleepy, heavy with exhaustion and something else.

"Alfred," Arthur rasped. His lungs wouldn't allow him the air to speak normally. "Damn… is he…?"

"Yeah," Alfred said. "He is. You did it, Artie. You fucking did it." He felt like he should smile then, but instead his eyes stung. He didn't want to admit to himself that he knew why. "You saved our asses, bro. We're gonna be okay now."

Arthur's gaze took on a sad hue that made Alfred's breath catch. "You're going to be okay. Both of you… and everyone else…"

Alfred swallowed. He knew where this was going, but no way in hell was he going to let Arthur get there. "We're all gonna be fine. We're gonna leave this goddamned place and start over."

Arthur smiled. It was the saddest smile Alfred had ever seen, and it made his heart plummet. "Yes, you'll start over. I wish you well."

Alfred didn't care if Arthur saw. He hiccuped, and then he couldn't hide the tears any longer. "Don't say… Artie, I'm taking you with me. I'll carry you out of here. I'll get you to a medic—"

Arthur made an almost unnoticeable movement that Alfred perceived as a shake of the head. "Medics… can't help a damn."

Alfred blinked. Sticky warmth rolled down his face. He took Arthur by the shoulders and lifted his upper half into his lap. "Yes… yes they can, Art. They can. You just have to let them try. You… have to hold out until we get there. Please… don't let that bastard win. Don't let him… don't…" Alfred couldn't say the word, his throat contracting at every attempt. He wrapped both arms around Arthur and held him.

"He didn't win…" Arthur said, almost annoyed. "Stupid… yank… he's gone, isn't he?"

"But…" A tear rolled down Alfred's nose and he wiped it away. Tony's elimination somehow wasn't enough. "You're—"

Arthur sighed tremulously. "Yes, I am," he confirmed. The look on Alfred's face tugged at his heartstrings. He had the appearance of a lost child. Alfred's lower lip quivered and he lowered his head, hiding his grief behind his soiled fringe. "Alfred," Arthur began in a firm tone, the firmest he could manage, "don't you… _dare_ quit. Don't you give up. That's… an order."

Alfred sniffed and looked up again, his eyes swimming. "Y-yes, sir." And he wiped his nose on his sleeve.

Arthur made a soft _tsk_ ing noise. "Do remember… what I taught you about etiquette… guh… and manners… you won't be taken… seriously otherwise, _ah_." He screwed his eyes shut as his insides churned. _The Void is calling. It's taking me back… the debt is due…_

"Artie?" Alfred said, startled. He pulled Arthur closer to him and took his hand. The fingers were bony and cold. A sob escaped his chest. "Artie… I lo—"

Arthur scoffed. "None of that… cliché Hollyw—wood shite. At least let me… go… nngh… honorably."

"Okay, Artie," Alfred breathed, his voice shuddering. "Okay."

Arthur peered up at him with his hooded, hazy green eyes. "You're… a right sappy git… you know that?"

A sob was working its way up Alfred's throat again, but it somehow turned into a weak laugh and a lopsided smile. One corner of Arthur's lips lifted in a content half grin.

"Now… there's a smile." Arthur felt his insides churn again. It felt like they were being sucked out of his body. His head spun and then suddenly cleared. He felt the last of his energy run dry, and he closed his eyes. All he could feel was Alfred's warmth, the man's hand clutched tightly around his own.

_Just like sleeping._

His lungs managed another shallow breath, and when he exhaled he couldn't feel anything anymore.

* * *

Somewhere, through the smoke and snow, mud and ash, through pools of spilled blood, hills of cut flesh and splintered bone, Ivan was staring.

"Arthur," he mumbled forlornly.

"Non, ami. It's—"

"Nyet," Ivan said, shaking Francis's comforting hand from his own. "Arthur. He's…"

Francis went dead silent. Ivan reached out and took his hand again.

"Спасибо, Francis," he said. "I am not leaving."

Francis didn't speak and neither did Ivan. They merely watched the gray, snow-specked horizon where HQ was cresting over the ruins of distant buildings. And, even though Ivan knew it was over, that the hell they had gone through for so long was finally extinguished, something still wasn't quite right in the world, because a certain someone was no longer there.

 _Thank you, comrade,_ Ivan mused. _Thank you and farewell._

* * *

Translations:

 _До скорой встречи-_ See you soon

 _Спасибо_ _-_ Thank you

 _Morituri te salutant_ -Those who are about to die salute you

"Stardust" poem (c) ME, so DON'T STEAL!

A Word From the Writer: Holy balls, this was long! Again, sorry for the late update (how long has it been? 2 weeks? Wow, it feels much longer than that...). But, brace for the excuses, I _still_ have family over. My aunt and her two kids left, but now my _cousin,_ her husband, and their baby are here. I have had my house occupied for five months. _Five months_. And they don't do shit! They don't clean up after themselves, they don't cook, they let their kid make a mess everywhere in the house, they don't take their dirty diapers out to the trash bin, hell, they don't even take care of or walk their dog! They hardly take their kid outside, poor baby! Ugh, having them over has made me truly appreciate the values my parents instilled in me about cleaning and courtesy. My dad is at the end of his rope, and their move out date has been pushed from September the 5th to the 12th! They're NEVER GONNA LEAVE! And on top of all this, I've started college and I'm looking for a job, so I've been busy lately. *sigh* So, there are my excuses, and I think they're pretty goddamn valid. I would have liked to give you an author's note to verify that I was still writing this thing, but I hate author's notes. They make you believe there's an update, and then when you get there it's just a "I'll be finished in a week or so" sort of bullshit.

Now, to the chapter content. England is dead. Yes, really, he's gone. It was so hard for me to write him dying for real, dammit, because he's one of my favorite characters! But I knew that I had been killing off characters that I didn't have such a huge attachment to all throughout this fic, so I decided to really hit home by killing off a character not only I but a lot of fans love. It was between England, America, Italy, and Germany, so I flipped a mental coin and decided to off England. It's a terrible thing, but it reinforces the reality of the fic. England gave his life to kill Tony. I believe that's a pretty noble way to go, and one that England would have chosen with little hesitation. Goodbye, my British gentleman, you will be missed. But I can tell you now, this isn't the last time you will see England. He'll be back... just in a different sort of way. TT^TT

So... Tony's dead, the message is aborted, and the battle is done. *Patrick voice* That's what you think, but it's not over yet! There are still some loose strings to tie up and an ending to compose, so, yes, there will be more updates! I don't know if I will be able to manage an update each Saturday, but I will try to be consistent as much as humanly possible. For now, though, I must say goodbye and _"_ _До скорой встречи."_ (again, please, correct me if I'm wrong. I don't Russian and Google is a crap translator).


	124. Dulce et Decorum est

**Slowly but surely... getting there!**

Warning: Gore, Nichu, GerIta, character death, sad stuff.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

ALERT!! FORGOT TO ADD FIRST PART, SO YOU MIGHT WANT TO READ FOR SOME EXTRA FEELS. 

* * *

_"Never doubt that a small group of committed people can change the world. Indeed, it is the only thing that ever has."_

—Margaret Mead

**Dulce et Decorum est**

"Now… there's a smile."

Alfred watched Arthur's grin weaken. Watched his eyes close. Watched his chest fall and still.

The Briton's grip slackened in Alfred's hand.

"Artie?" Alfred stared hopefully at the man's pale face. "Artie." He squeezed Arthur's hand as his heart thudded against his ribs. There was no squeeze back.

Alfred's eyes blurred and he began to shake.  _No, no…_ "W-what… my smile. You were talking about my sm-smile, Artie. My smile… remember? Remember, Artie?" He removed his hand from Arthur's and shook him, muttering his name, then shouting his name. His lungs began to contract painfully. "T-tell me a s-story, Artie… s-something about C-Camelot… the R-Round T-Table…" He gave a feathery laugh. "I-I always imagined King A-Arthur as you… how s-stupid is that?" He shook him again. "C'mon. Laugh, Artie. Th-that f-fucking snooty laugh." Alfred's face was hot, and it felt like a stone had been jammed down his throat. He began to sob. "G-goddammit, Artie. Why did you have to come h-here? W-why c-couldn't… I c-could have dealt with him. It was my job! I-it was my j-job… dammit… please…" He pulled Arthur up to him. Buried his face in his chest. His heart felt like it was being squeezed over and over again. "If o-only I'd've… th-then maybe… you wouldn't be… wouldn't— _shit_!" He broke down into sobs and agonized wails, muffled as he hid his face in the blood-stained ruffles of Arthur's vest, but even then they seemed much, much louder.

"Don't leave," Alfred begged, his voice reduced to whimpery breaths. "You p-promised you would alw-ways be there… remember, you b-bastard? Promised!"

 _"MASTER NOT DETECTED. MASTER NOT DETECTED,"_ the AI bellowed. The red lights flashed and the ground began to quake.  _"SYSTEM TO SELF-DESTRUCT IN 3 MINUTES AND 0 SECONDS. 2 MINUTES AND 59 SECONDS… 58… 57… 56…"_

Suddenly, a hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. "Alfred, Alfred. We have to leave."

Alfred wrenched his shoulder from Feliciano's grip. All he wanted right now was to be with Arthur. He didn't want to move, didn't want to do anything but stay with him in the place where the spirit of who Arthur was still lingered, so close it was as if the Briton had never left. Alfred remained hunched, clinging to Arthur's cooling body, rocking and crying and hiding his face in Arthur's neck. He wouldn't care if he died there. As long as he would be beside Arthur.

The ticking seemed to grow louder, rattling Feliciano's skull. He grabbed Alfred. Shook him again. "We have to go! It's going to explode!"

"Don't care," Alfred grumbled between breathy sobs. He got another painful stitch in his chest and held Arthur all the tighter, as if having him close would make all his discomfort go away. "Please, leave me alone."

Feliciano was desperate. It was everything he could do not to pass out from all the heart-stopping things that had happened, and now he was once again frozen. He was desperate to escape, the shaking beneath his feet and the booms of the clock growing louder and louder with every second, but he just couldn't leave Alfred there. He knew he couldn't drag Alfred out, all the more so if the man would be holding onto Arthur. But what else could he do?

"Alfred," Feliciano said, thinking of how badly he wanted to see Ludwig and confirm that he was all right. "Please don't make me go back and tell Ivan that you didn't come with me. I-I don't think I could do it. Please, Alfred. Please."

Alfred's breath caught, and he swallowed a sob. His eyes filled with heat again, and he screwed them shut, letting his grief soak into the bloody remnants of Arthur's shirt. Then he took a breath. "Let's get out of here."

Relief flooded through Feliciano, but he was just as soon agonized by the sight of Arthur's limp body as Alfred stood and lifted it into his arms. At first, all he could do was stare. The form looked so foreign that Feliciano could barely recognize it.  _Arthur._ He looked so weak, so lifeless… Arthur would never allow anyone to see him in such a state. Only then did Arthur's death hit home. His eyes flooded with tears and he let out a sob, clapping a hand to his mouth.

"C'mon," Alfred said. His voice was curiously monotone. "You got me up, so let's go."

Feliciano hiccupped and took a quivering breath, wiping away the wetness on his face. "S-si."

Arthur's head lolled against Alfred, finding a place in the niche of his neck. A memory surfaced then, of Alfred having fallen asleep on the floor, his toys scattered around him. He had woken for just a moment, bleary-eyed and fuzzy. Arthur had been carrying him, had carried him all the way to his bed. He was gingerly tucked in and he heard Arthur mumble something he was too sleepy to make out. Then he felt lips against his forehead and heard a door shut. When Alfred had risen next he had thought it only a dream, that somehow he had managed to make it to bed by himself before falling asleep. After that, he never thought about it—until now, and now he knew it hadn't been a dream.

Arthur felt so light in his arms, so deathly light. Yet the sensation of having Arthur so close, curled into him, almost childlike, comforted somehow. Was this how Arthur had felt when he had carried Alfred? Had he felt the same comfort? What had he mumbled that day while tucking him in? Alfred, now, would never know.

_There were still so many things I wanted to ask you. I wish I'd had the sense to do so._

_"2 MINUTES AND 0 SECONDS. 1 MINUTE AND 59 SECONDS. 58… 57… 56…"_

_I won't let this place be your burial site._ The clock boomed its countdown, and Feliciano whimpered beside him, clutching further at his shoulder and staggering as the ground shook all the more violently. Alfred pressed his lips to Arthur's forehead.

"I love you. You wouldn't let me say it before, so I can say it now. I love you, Artie, and you can be damn sure I'm not gonna give up. Ever. For you."

And, together, they ran.

* * *

 

Black. Black, black—that was all he could see. His eyes were open. Was it nightfall?

Then it all came rushing back to him: the explosion, the fire, the gas, his vision…

Something jostled him at his left side, followed by fingers on his bare leg, brushing over something raw. He flinched, and that was when he could hear the voices.

"He's awake!" someone close yelled. He only then realized that there was something over his mouth, some sort of mask. It was snatched off.

He could hear another person rush over to stand beside him. "Awake?" Fingers traced over his face, pulling his eyelids up. "Motion… Kiku? Kiku, can you hear me? Say something, or if you can't speak move your fingers."

"Yao," he croaked.

"What?"

"Yao."

"I don—"

"Sir," the assistant interjected. "I think he's talking about that guy in tent three."

"Oh." Kiku didn't like the man's sympathetic tone.

"Alive?" Kiku asked, his throat raw from the smoke and gas. He wasn't entirely sure if he was asking about Yao or himself.

He was met with silence. Kiku's heart dropped.

Then the man said, "Why don't you wheel him over there. He seems stable for now. Just monitor those dressings. They should have to be changed within the hour."

"Yes, sir."

There was a push and a creak of wheels—Kiku was laying on a stretcher. Was he dreaming? Was he alive? He was breathing and he could feel his heart beating in his chest. He couldn't understand. He was sure that he had felt it stop. Why wasn't he dead? He had so many questions to ask, but all he could do was hold his breath as he rolled through what he perceived as a sort of camp—through people, voices, smells—waiting and hoping to hear Yao. _Please, please._

What he heard, however, was a very different but very familiar voice. It sounded a few yards away, rising and lowering in pitch as the speaker picked their way through the crowd.

"Hey! … Ki—move! … Tch, move out of the way! … Kiku! Kiku!"

There was the sound of running footsteps, and then the stretcher stopped rolling. "I've got it from here." An assenting mumble. Receding footsteps. A hand on his arm. "Kiku. Feeling better?"

Red. The state's presence was comforting, but not as comforting as Yao's would be at the moment. "Hai. Better."

"Well," Red continued, retracting her hand and pushing the stretcher into an uneven roll, "where're you headed to?"

Kiku's mind was still spinning. It was hard to recall his destination. "Tent… tent three. Yao."

"They've got Yao here, eh?" Red said conversationally. She suddenly jerked the stretcher sharply to the right and shouted, "Hey, watch where you're running, asshole! Wounded here!" Boot soles scraped on gravel, followed by a hastily muttered apology. Red huffed and resumed her pushing. "It's been mass chaos around here ever since those bastards decided to gas the tunnels. Been getting a lot of people in. Medics running every which way trying to figure out how the hell to treat 'em." She sighed, and Kiku hoped she didn't realize that he was blind. That he was useless. He didn't want to be another statistic. "Vicious. But I was expecting nothing less. I knew the Overlord was packing some pretty dangerous stuff, I just didn't know what. If Yao's in tent three, that doesn't put him in with the guys who got the gas, but it doesn't exactly mean he's out of the woods either."

Kiku made a concerned sound in his throat. He decided to steer the conversation away from Yao's current condition. Just hearing the man's name made his stomach turn over with doubt. "Where… everyone?" Kiku choked out. His throat felt raw and his mouth still tasted of that deplorable gas residue.

"Can't give you the details on all of 'em," Red began. She turned the stretcher, and voices rose around Kiku as he rolled through a throng of medics scrambling to gather supplies. "A rockfall separated me from my group not long after someone reported that Feliciano had wandered off somewhere… predictably. After that, I decided to pick my way through the women's sector till another explosion provided an escape route to the outside. But I needed to find Feliciano, so I made my way around, looking for another entryway that wasn't blocked or gassed to shit or crawling with Organization rats. That was when I found Danny. He said that he'd lost you and Matthew after your tunnel was blown up. We paired up and tore our way through what was left of the Organization's reserves and came across Ludwig. He was in some deep shit, but we managed to pull him out of it."

Kiku's heart lurched. "Ludwig… alive?"

"Yeah. Not all that surprising, really. I can assure you that I'll hang the fact that I saved his ass over his head for a long time after this. I won't let him forget it."

"Where?"

"Hm? Ludwig? Oh, he took off to what's left of HQ with Dan. Seemed to think Feliciano was in the vicinity when the whole thing blew to hell…"

Kiku's breath caught. "Blew?"

"Yeah, didn't you hear it? The Overlord set the fucker to blow, apparently. Were you passed out or something? Must have been. I thought we were getting nuked for sure."

"Hm," Kiku grunted dazedly.

"As for the others… sad to say I dunno. Just got here. Trying to round up the gang. Or what's left of it at least. Ah—here we are. Tent three."

Kiku was relieved that they had finally arrived at their destination; Red wasn't exactly the most optimistic person to talk to. The stretcher creaked to a halt as Red pushed the flap aside. Then the stretcher jerked into motion again.

It was slightly warmer inside. Out of the wind. The air smelled of a rotting sweetness, some-thing he had never smelled before. Or rather had never been able to, before his blindness enhanced his other senses. The silence in the tent unnerved him. He could hear shoes shuffling, instruments tinkling, the rustle of what he assumed was gauze. The soft moans of the wounded. Kiku's stomach turned over again.

"Now," Red said, "where'd they put him? Should be somewhere near the front, if the bastards listened to anything I said about the importance of nations…"

Someone approached. "Another one?" a female voice asked.

"Oh no," Red replied, "this one's stable. We're just looking for a Yao. Heard he was in here."

The medic was quiet for a moment, just long enough to have Kiku chewing at his lip. Then she said, "Yes, he's here. He's just… w-why don't I take you to him?"

Kiku heard Red's fingers drum disconcertedly against the bar of the stretcher. Kiku, similarly, bit through his bottom lip. The wheels creaked into motion again, rolling past moaning cots, some deathly silent cots. He found his breath growing shallower and shallower with every second that ticked by. Then the stretcher slowed and, finally, stopped. Kiku was holding his breath.

A cot creaked and there was a rustle of fabric. Then there was a voice. "K-Kiku."

Kiku's heart nearly stopped. "Yao?"

"Kiku!" Yao's voice broke. God, Kiku wished he could see the man's face. But he was alive and here, with him. His eyes grew hot and filled with tears that he couldn't stop from spilling. He opened his mouth to ask Yao how he was doing, to tell him how relieved he was that he had survived. All that came out was a hiccuping sob.

Yao couldn't believe his eyes. Kiku was in front of him, breathing and relatively intact. The man's face was red where fire had licked him, his arms and hands bandaged from the elbows down, and his eyes were wide and blotchy with broken blood vessels, but he was alive. Yao wanted more than anything to run over and throw his arms around Kiku, but he was bound to his cot by his injuries. One of his legs was broken, his hip was shattered, his right arm was shot, his thigh and pelvis had been gouged, his nose was broken. And, suddenly, he could no longer feel how broken he was. "My yīnghuā."

Red rolled the stretcher to Yao's cot, close enough for the man to reach out and grab Kiku's hand. It felt so small, the grip so light. He bent down and pressed his lips to the bandaged knuckles. "Gǎnxiè shàngdì."

"Yao…" Kiku began, but the rest caught in his throat. He ducked his head and sniffed.

"Yao," Red spoke for him, clearly a bit uncomfortable with the outpouring of emotion, "you look like you got run over by a truck. What the hell happened?"

Yao sighed, not taking his eyes off Kiku as he replied, "It's a long story."

Red scoffed. "Don't give me any of that bullshit. If you haven't noticed, you're both unable to move. If there's any time to tell long stories, it's now."

Yao wished that Red could leave so he and Kiku could be alone, but the more people he told about his part in the conflict the less he'd have to repeat himself. He swallowed. He could still taste dust in his throat. "I was in position and Alfred disappear. The plan was to go into HQ together with combined forces, but he nowhere to be found. I took men and went down to the street, but we were ambushed. I was taken to helicopter and tied up. We took off, and I stabbed a soldier. Then door was pushed open and he fell out. The pilot shot himself and I kill the co-pilot. Then we crash into monument and the helicopter fell. I jumped out into the pool and pulled myself out of the water. I must have pass out, because next time I wake up I see soldiers staring down at me. They said they were Resisters looking for others who live. They said crows picking on me, but someone had sense to check. Then I was here."

"Sounds like quite an adventure," Red said.

"Shì. I have pretty bad broken leg and hip, but doctors say I can walk when I heal."

"Shit, really? Must've been one helluva fall. Lemme see it." Fabric rustled again and the cot creaked. Red sucked air through her teeth. "Yowch. Yeah, that's gonna take some time."

There was silence, then Yao said, "Um… Kiku? What are you looking at?"

Kiku started. "N-nani?"

"My leg over here. You looking at floor." Yao laughed a bit. "You hit your head in fall, too?"

Kiku's throat became scratchy and his eyes became moist again. Red stopped drumming her fingers against the bar on the stretcher, and Kiku knew that she was aware of his vision loss, had been aware since she had first seen him and had had the courtesy not to comment on it. Yao was so happy at the moment, with them together, making jokes… guilt churned within Kiku. He didn't want to spoil that joy after all that had just happened. He wanted things to be normal.

"Kiku?" Yao asked again, nonplussed.

Kiku wrung his bandaged hands and chewed his tongue. Red shifted where she stood before saying, "Welp, sounds like they've got another flood of people in. Better go see if anymore nations have turned up."

As soon as he heard Red's footsteps fade, Kiku took a deep breath. "Yao…"

"Yīnghuā, what's wrong?"

The concern in Yao's voice made Kiku pull his hand away from the other man's, wiping his eyes. "I-I was," he cleared his throat, "hit by the gas."

"The gas?" Yao parroted, unable to follow. "The gas…? What does… but doctors… they don't even know…" Realization hit Yao like a sledgehammer. He had been doped up on morphine and only half awake, but he did recall hearing the medics talking frantically about soldiers who had been exposed to the gas, their symptoms…

It felt like a stone had just dropped into Yao's stomach. "You're…"

Kiku just stared his empty stare, wetness running down his face. Yao took his hand again, held it against his cheek, and cried.

* * *

Red leaned against a stretcher and sighed as she listened to Yao's sobs. She looked down. "Reckon I'll find anyone with worse damage?"

The burlap-covered corpse did not answer.

"Oh, yeah. Sorry."

She stood to her full height and stuck her hands in her pockets, walking through a milling crowd of shouting medics, crying soldiers, and moaning wounded. She strolled past more burlap, seven bundles of it, all lined up in a row. As she passed the last, another was lifted from a nearby stretcher and laid out beside its fellows. Red reached for her vest pocket, fingers searching around inside before coming away with nothing. _Tch, damn._ She could really do with a smoke right now.

She bumped into a medic rushing the other way.

" _Shit,_ " he said. "Sorry, ma'am." Then he peered up at her. He was young, so terribly young, with big round glasses, a crack winding down one lens. "Ma'am… are you okay? You're bleeding…"

"I'm walking, ain't I?" Red snapped and pushed him aside. "Now go take care of soldiers who actually need help." And she started at a brisk walk toward the front of the camp. Even at such a distance, she could see the large amount of soldiers leaning on their comrades, being hefted onto stretchers, being maneuvered limply into burlap sacks.

_If I see you in one of those goddamn sacks, Alfred, I'll kick your ass._

* * *

"Ivan… Ivan, look." Francis shook the Russian's shoulder. "Ivan. They're here."

The man didn't respond. Alarmed, Francis sat up and Ivan's head lolled to the side. "Ivan? Ivan." _I told you to stay awake. Why didn't you stay awake?_ He seized Ivan firmly by the shoulder and shook him once again. "Ivan, allez au diable, I will not let you go now. Not after,"—Francis's eyes trailed down to the stump that was Ivan's leg, blackened and peeling at the end from the cauterization—"everything." Another shake. Still nothing. Francis's eyes began to burn and he lifted Ivan's head off of his lap, turning around and laying him in a dry patch of dirt as gently as his trembling hands would allow. The Russian's face, despite being filth-smeared and bloody, was paler than Francis had ever seen it, barely contrasting with the dusting of snow that had settled on the ground since the tank was hit. His eyes were purple with exhaustion, closed, and his chest was rising almost inconspicuously. Francis jerked his head around to study the dark forms approaching in the distance. They were moving far too slowly.

"Ici!" Francis shouted, pushing himself to his feet and struggling to keep his legs from giving out completely. He waved his arms over his head. "Here! Here! Hurry! _He's dying_!"

A flicker of movement out of the corner of Francis's eye made him whip his head around. Both of Ivan's eyes were still closed, his face was still deathly pale, his chest was still rising shallowly, but he had managed to regain enough strength to move his head just enough so that it fell to his other side. "Not—dying—" Ivan croaked, expelling each word on weak, individual gusts of breath. "Just—resting—"

"Do not speak," Francis told him, placing a hand lightly on Ivan's chest. He wanted Ivan to know that he wasn't alone—and he wanted to be able to feel when Ivan was no longer breathing. "Save your breath. Can you open your eyes? –Ivan, I need you to open them." One of the Russian's eyelids quivered, and only that. Francis jerked his head around, his hair, damp with mud and blood, plastering to his face. "Vite! He is a nation—help him!"

The men were running, but they seemed to be no closer than they had been a minute before. Exasperated and desperate, Francis jumped to his feet, grabbed Ivan beneath his arms, and pulled. The cold mud sucked at his feet and swallowed around Ivan's lower half. Francis's muscles quivered under the strain, and he dug in his heels, gritting his teeth and growling. But his strength had fled him. His legs gave out and he was sent down into the cold, consuming sea of snow-dusted mud and ash.

"Ivan!" Francis yelled. The man didn't even flinch. " _Ivan_!"

Suddenly the men were beside them, leaning over and throwing useless questions at him like, "Is he responding?" and "How long has his leg been like that?", but Francis snapped, "Just help me lift him!" After that, they didn't ask anything else.

They carried Ivan, supporting him with one of the Russian's arms over each of their shoulders. Ivan's head continued to loll. Francis followed along in the channel Ivan's dragging foot left in the cold mud, catching his occasional mumbles, some in Russian, some in English, and all breathless.

On and on, the desolate patch of scorched and cratered land seemed to continue forever. The soldiers did not slow and Francis struggled to keep up, chewing his lip as, for five long minutes, Ivan was completely silent. Out of that silence, he heard the rattling rumble of an engine. Their heads shot up. Ivan's remained hanging. Francis squinted through the smoke and swirling snow to see an oddly-shaped figure approaching at inhuman speed. Francis would have tried to further identify it if doing so didn't make his head throb.

Luckily, he didn't need to. "It's a bike—someone on a bike!" one of the soldiers exclaimed.

Francis raised his arms and waved at them as best he could. "Over here! Over here! We have wounded!"

The bike materialized out of the haze, rocketing from it in a swirl of smoke. It sped across the wet earth, kicking up clods of mud and ash along the way. It puttered to a halt beside them, painting them with flecks of dirt, but Francis could hardly care. There was a sidecar open and waiting, and the two soldiers carrying Ivan laid him inside it while Francis tucked the Russian's leg in, being sure to mind his stump, and secured him in place. The man was listless, head hanging back. Francis shrugged off his vest and rolled it up, sliding it beneath Ivan's neck to give him some sort of comfort. As he did so, he saw one of the man's violet eyes open a crack and study him gratefully. Francis took his hand. "We will get you help," he promised before swinging a leg over the bike and gripping the driver around the waist. He still had a tight hold of Ivan's hand.

"How far away are the nearest medics?" Francis asked.

The driver nudged back his kickstand. "It took me ten minutes to get here."

Francis's stomach twisted and he peered down at Ivan. He was as motionless as before. He turned back to the driver, his arm tightening around him. "Let's make it in five."

The driver shrugged. "It has enough juice."

And they tore off across the moonscape.

* * *

"A man, reddish brown hair, a sort of curly cowlick, looks a bit wimpy, says 've' a lot for no reason at all?"

The soldier shook his head, his friend, who had a bandage over his eye, shrugging. Ludwig's shoulders slumped. "No, haven't seen him."

He watched the men walk away, leaning against each other for support. He would have liked to volunteer to help them to the camp, but he couldn't afford to divert from his search. All he could think about was Feliciano and how he could be lying somewhere right now, slowly bleeding out. He lurched onward, gritting his teeth against the pain shooting up his injured legs and icy wind stinging his eyes.

"Um, s-sir?" Danny asked hesitantly. "We've been walking around for half an hour and you're losing your strength. Do you think we should—"

"I am finding Feli," Ludwig insisted. He would have liked to leave Danny at the camp as well, but Red had to check in with her troops and had ordered Danny to keep Ludwig company due to his hindering wounds. And the man's girth was almost as hindering as Ludwig's injuries; he had been puffing for the past fifteen minutes, and Ludwig was having to drag him around like some ball and chain.

"Where haven't we looked yet?" Danny thought aloud, and, as much as Ludwig knew he was trying to be helpful, it was quite annoying. "M-maybe along Constitution Avenue? He could be hiding in what's left of the buildings…"

 _No,_ Ludwig wanted to snap at him. _Feli would run and keep running until he saw someone he knew._ Danny was absolutely clueless, and it was pissing Ludwig off. He knew he shouldn't be so short with the man, as Danny was helping him as best he could manage (his area of expertise, after all, was computer systems), but he couldn't help feeling that he could have found Feliciano by now if he were alone. Every second that passed without a glimpse of the Italian gnawed more and more at his resolve. _I knew I should have never agreed that Feli be put on a different team._ Anger coiled in his gut for Red. _She's as irresponsible as her father. I should have known this would happen, I should have known…_

But if Feliciano wasn't at the camp and hadn't somehow found Ludwig already, like he always seemed to do, then where the hell was he?

They had examined the fallen monument and the reflecting pool, where surviving troops were scooping victims out of the wreckage. They had crossed the killing fields at the mouths of the crumbling tunnels, where there were so many bodies that one could walk across it without touching the ground. They had checked the ruined museums, looted stores, had even sifted through the pits where Ludwig had been rescued from. And, while at those times he was hoping with all his heart to not see Feliciano, something inside him wanted to hear that distinctive 've' or else receive closure by finding the Italian among the dead. But no. Instead of being allowed to rejoice or grieve, he was caught in a type of limbo that had him walking around in a haze of paranoid uncertainty.

Only after they had checked up and down the avenue as Danny had suggested did Ludwig come to the agonizing realization that there was just one other place Feliciano could be.

_Headquarters._

Danny seemed to realize this as well, as he had stopped making suggestions and didn't need direction, taking Ludwig obediently to the site. Even before they rounded the corner, it was obvious that the explosion had been much more catastrophic than Ludwig had observed from far away. Debris was scattered as far as a mile away from the detonation site, everything from wood to cement to marble to twisted and melted metal. Once they turned the corner, all that could be seen was a stretch of scorched earth and blackened rubble, in the center of which was a deep grove wherein the surviving marble columns, charred beyond recognition, were standing haphazardly—the last of what was once the Archives. It was clear by the colossal damage of it all that the explosion had gone off from within. Ludwig knew that Alfred and Yao had been posted here and, while he had not yet seen or heard anything from them, the only one he was concerned about at the moment was Feliciano. Please, let him have run, Ludwig prayed to no one in particular as he studied the smoking crater that could very well be Feliciano's grave.

Not a word was exchanged between them. They picked their way through the wreckage, Ludwig struggling to navigate through the remnants of the building; once, his foot caught on a gnarled bit of what used to be a hand rail and he was forced to grab Danny to keep his balance. Several times, he had to stop because something had jabbed him in one of his wounds. Eventually, he shoved the man away. "Let's split up."

Danny agreed and lumbered off somewhere to search, while Ludwig commenced sifting through the mess around him, half of him hoping he didn't see that distinct reddish-brown hair among the destruction and the other half wishing that he could just find Feliciano.

They seemed to search for hours. The snow had stopped falling and the gray clouds had parted just a bit to reveal a wink of sun setting over the crest of crumbling buildings in the distance when Danny picked his way over to Ludwig, who was so busy that he hadn't heard his approach. He jumped when the man put a hand on his shoulder and said, "We'd better get back to camp and have those wounds checked."

Ludwig was inclined to tell him off, but having been interrupted from his daze of searching, his mind had cleared enough for him to conclude that it was probably best if he conceded. His hands were black with soot and bloody from having been scraped on all the debris he'd had to move. He flexed them, a sting shooting up his palms that petered into a dull ache as Danny offered his arm and helped Ludwig out of the little runnel he had dug through the wreckage. They left the destroyed Archives behind and made their way up the avenue again, Ludwig's heart dropping down into his stomach and churning it up. They had looked everywhere. There was nowhere else Feliciano could possibly be.

Ludwig felt his lungs constricting, but not in grief. Instead of a sob, he let out a scream. _"Feli!"_

Danny nearly jumped out of his skin, staring at Ludwig half in concern, half in pity. Ludwig stood there, hunched, clutching his scarred hands, listening to his voice echo off of what was left of the buildings around them. A minute passed. Then two.

Danny gave him a little tug. "Your wounds," was all he could say, and Ludwig knew he was right. The German gave a frustrated sigh and followed, his eyes stinging as he kicked aside a sizable stone in his grief. Pain rattled up his leg, but it was nothing compared to the pain that came with the loss of Feliciano. _Why didn't you run, you idiot?_ His chest hurt, like someone had just shoved a steel rod through his ribcage. It hurt to breathe, and the breath he did manage to catch was shallow and quivery.

_"Luddy!"_

Both stopped dead. Ludwig's head jerked around to the direction of the voice, his heart hammering. "Was? Nein." He was just hearing things, yes, that's what it was. He was mourning Feliciano's death and now he could hear the man's voice, because he wanted to hear it—

And was he _seeing_ him as well?

Because Feliciano was running toward them in his usual, awkward fashion, waving his arms so fast they seemed a blur. "Luddy! It's me!"

"Feliciano," Ludwig breathed and wrenched out of Danny's grasp to begin limping toward the Italian. He knew he wasn't in his right mind now, but somehow that didn't matter. Feliciano was there, covered with soot and blood and dirt. But his appearance didn't matter either. To Ludwig, Feliciano had never looked more beautiful a sight than he did then. Warmth spilled from his eyes. "Feli!"

"Luddy! Luddy!" Feliciano called and ran as fast as he could toward him until, in mere moments, Ludwig had his arms full of sobbing Italian. "Luddy" was all he could say for a while, arms wrapped around Ludwig's neck and squeezing him as strongly as he could. And, Ludwig had to admit, it was pretty strong.

Ludwig returned his embrace, holding Feliciano as if afraid he would be taken away. "You idiot," he said softly, cupping the back of the Italian's head and burying his face in his shoulder, appreciating the way Feliciano's hair ticked his nose. "You idiot."

"L-Ludd-dy," Feliciano cried, his face hidden in the German's broad chest. "I'm sorry, ve, I'm s-sorry…"

"Nein, Feli, I'm sorry," Ludwig said. Now that they were reunited, he began to notice features of the Italian he had never noticed before: like the two moles on Feliciano's neck, how his ears stuck out just enough to be endearing, how, when Ludwig finally pulled Feliciano back to see his face, the Italian's irises contained flecks of copper that glimmered whenever the light hit them. "I'm sorry you were alone. I should have been with you. I should have looked harder for you—"

Feliciano blinked his wide, swimming eyes up at him and took his hand. "I wasn't alone, Luddy."

"Was?"

Feliciano's body left his and Ludwig shivered from the loss of his warmth, his heart pounding and muscles tensing like he wanted nothing more than to scoop Feliciano up and protect him from anything and everything—do all that he hadn't been able to do before. But before he could move or question further, Feliciano pulled him toward one of the ruined museums. Danny seemed to sense the importance of Feliciano's intent and Ludwig could hear his footsteps draw up behind them.

"We went down 9th street and hid out in the National Mall," Feliciano explained, as if he had read Ludwig's mind. They rounded a corner and there it was, the street. Feliciano's tugs became harder, more insistent. "We were going to go find help, but—"

"We?" Ludwig repeated, aghast. He couldn't believe there could be anything more extraordinary at the moment than finally finding Feliciano.

The Italian answered his question was a brisk nod. They entered a large field, desolate but for scattered bones and the remains of what Ludwig assumed was a helicopter. And, surprisingly, the Italian led them toward it.

It was an old, rusted thing, probably dating back to the first riots of the Uprising. It lay hunched like a fallen beast, moaning as the wind blew through its twisted metal. Ludwig's boots crunched, and he looked down to see that he was walking over a stretch of bone shards. There were more the closer they got to the helicopter, and very soon Ludwig could feel nothing but bones beneath his feet. He was determined not to look down, but once he did out of curiosity. His eyes locked onto a detached mandible, every single tooth still visible and untarnished—as if they were still capable of chewing. As he walked past it, he imagined it launching itself at him and sinking those teeth into his ankle. His stomach turned over, and he looked away.

He caught the scent of rot and saw that the seats of the helicopter, decayed and blackened, were covered in a thick blanket of furry green mold. He held his arm over his face and coughed as the odor became stronger, and still Feliciano led him further into the wreckage.

"Feli," Ludwig mumbled through his sleeve, "we shouldn't— _mein Gott_."

Ludwig wrenched himself out of Feliciano's grasp and bolted past him until he was standing over the ones Feliciano had referred to. He stared for a moment, trying to determine if the sight before him was real or just a result of the blood loss from his wounds. Then he crouched down and said quietly, "Alfred…" and could say nothing else.

The man didn't even look up at him. He was sitting cross-legged on the ground, Arthur's listless form draped across his lap. Upon hearing Ludwig's approach, even his voice, he hadn't moved or shown any sign that he knew the German was there. He was so still that, at first, Ludwig thought him unconscious or worse.

Then Alfred said, "I wanted to get help… but I couldn't carry him any further."

Ludwig was unsure of what to say. Danny came up behind him and said, "Oh God… is he…?"

The German winced, wishing that the man had chosen to say nothing, and if he'd had to speak to say anything _but_ that. But Alfred, again, didn't react. Ludwig swallowed.

"We have to get them back to camp, Luddy," Feliciano urged. "Alfred's bleeding…"

"I know, Feli. Alfred, can you walk?"

Alfred nodded, his face hidden by his bloody fringe.

Ludwig didn't know how to handle Alfred in this state. He had never encountered a quiet, resigned Alfred before. He flexed his hands, intent upon taking Arthur from his grasp, but he couldn't bring himself to, not when he saw the white-knuckled way Alfred clutched the Briton to him.

Something crackled behind him, and they all jumped. Ludwig spun around and saw Danny's hand shoot down to the radio at his waist. Red had given it to him just before they'd left the camp, claiming that it was for them to keep in contact with so that they wouldn't get lost, but more than once Ludwig had thought he'd heard Danny muttering into it while they were searching through the remnants of the Archives. He had overheard his name multiple times and knew Red was monitoring his condition.

 _Nosy,_ Ludwig mused. _Just like her father._ He saw Alfred shift out of the corner of his eye and, suddenly, the words he had just thought made his head ache.

A hiss of static redirected his attention. Danny was holding the radio, Red's voice grating out of it.

_"Dan, do you copy?"_

"Y-yeah, I copy."

_"Have you found Feliciano? Over."_

Danny spared a glance at the rest of the group, as if he was seeking permission to answer in the affirmative. He only received stares back, however, and said, "Yes. We found him and… some others. Over."

_"Others? Over."_

"Yes, um… Alfred an-and Arthur." He bit his lip like he expected Red to pick up that Arthur was… unwell. Over.

Silence stretched on the other end, and Danny bit down harder. Then Red sighed and said, _"Good. Then I won't have to send out more scouts. Over."_

"Scouts? Why—"

 _"You get everyone back to camp,"_ Red interrupted. _"And, Alfred, don't you even think of running off. I know how you are. Over."_

Ludwig pushed himself to his feet and walked over. "If you need another scout, I'll—"

 _"No,"_ Red snapped. _"You heard what I said. Get your asses back to camp ASAP. I have enough on my plate without worrying about you guys. Dan, what's your ETA? Over."_

"Uh…" Danny screwed up his face in thought and then replied, "About… we're about fifteen minutes out. Over."

"Virgnia."

Everyone jumped and whipped their heads around to stare at Alfred. He had lifted his head. His eyes were bloodshot and bleary, and his face was caked with blood and dirt. He was as pale as bone. "Tell me," he croaked, and his voice was just desperate enough to prompt a straight answer.

 _"Get your ass to camp, Alfred,"_ Red ordered, but there was no disguising the anxious quaver in her voice. _"Matt's missing, and I don't wanna have to send out more scouts to look for your dumb ass, too… Over and out."_

* * *

Translations:

 _yīnghuā_ -cherry blossom

 _Gǎnxiè shàngdì_ -Thank God

 _allez au diable_ -damn you (This I'm a bit suspicious about. Please correct me if I'm wrong).

 _Shì-_ Yes

 _Nani?_ -What?

 _Ici!_ -Here!

 _Vite!_ -Quickly!

A Word From the Writer: Holy balls! It's been a longer wait than last time and I didn't write nearly as much! Well, there was a lot of shit going on and school and whatever. Plus the internet distracts me. I barely watch any t.v. Now it's just YouTube and Netflix. Aside from that, yay, this chapter is finally out! I never knew going through different POVs could be so strenuous. Maybe it's because it's almost the end and I'm... purposefully procrastinating because this fic has been my heart and soul since March of 2013. Damn, it's been a long ride, and I've loved every minute of it.

Now, to the content! So, you have all of the nations verified as alive (or dead) except for Canada, since he's been buried twice under rocks because my ideas are so original. Anyway, Japan is blind, China's fucked up big time, Russia needs a peg leg (and maybe some oxygen), and England's dead. Yes, I was serious about me not bringing him back. He's definitely gone, folks, and there will be more sad feels coming up surrounding that, so stay tuned!

I dunno if the next chapter will be the last chapter, seeing as I have yet to start it. Lol, I plan so well. You can't deny these skills. The good news is that all of my family is moved out of the house (no more screaming babies, hooray!), so I'll have more time to devote to finishing this... if, that is, I can lengthen my attention span. To give you an example, once I was on an hour-long Wiki spree because I decided to look up common names of European royal families (because the Duchess of Cambridge is preggers again. Damn, they are getting it _done_ ) I somehow ended up reading about the _maît_ _resse-en-titre_ and looking up the shit-ton there were over the years (France, it's not surprising that your kings were manwhores). So... that said... _  
_

See ya whenever!


	125. Aeternum vale

**If you has sad, turn back now.**

Warning: Gore, sadness, a little bit of tripping out.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

**ATTENTION! I POSTED PART OF THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER LATE, SO IF YOU HAVEN'T READ IT THEN YOU MISSED SOME BIG FEELS!**

* * *

**Aeternum vale**

He was standing in the foyer of his home. He could smell the unique dank of the place that he could never seem to scrub away, the stench of a century past. The dusty old chandelier, with a few missing branches of lights, hung overhead, the chain making the distinct creak he knew so well as the faulty overhead window allowed a draft to snake in. The house was relatively warm, heated primarily by the hearth located in the adjacent den. The red light that the fire usually threw against the walls was absent, but he could smell wood burning. Outside, the sky was slate gray with snow clouds, and the hill beyond was glittering white from the lights the other houses' windows projected onto the ground. It was that time just after sunrise, when all of the birds had quieted after their early morning songs and when the bright silence was bringing the world to life.

He lifted his hands. He was wearing his green army greatcoat, ironed, spotless, and the color as vibrant as the day he had received it. His gaze continued downward, marveling, but something like dread grew and grew in the pit of his stomach with every inch his eyes traversed. By the time he reached his waist, a hesitance had settled over him that seemed unfounded but undeniably real.

His stomach dropped like a weight at the sight of his legs. Gone was flesh and meat and blood—bone was all that was left, glowing like they were reflecting all the light of the moon. Every little joint was defined, twisting downward, down, down, until he was staring at a pool of red swirling around his ankles, so dark it was almost black. Little islands of bloody flesh swam through it—all that was left of his legs.

As disgusted and horrified as he was, he bent down, something beckoning him. He urged his legs to have him stand again, to move and _run away_ , but it was as if his body was its own entity, and he could do nothing but watch, struggling to smother the panic rising up inside of him. He arrived at the blood, watching the chunks of flesh swirl in the dark currents for a few minutes until his mind was at ease. He could feel his joints begin to move, meaning to bring him upright again. But then something bubbled in the blood below, and he stopped rising. He stared. His heart was beating so fast he thought it would rip out of his chest.

Soon the surface of the pool was bubbling so much it appeared to be boiling. Although he felt no heat emanate from it, he did feel like something was coming.

Before he could convince his skeleton legs to lift him, a hand shot out of the blood and grabbed him about the throat, pulling him in. He could feel his mouth open, but nothing came out, even when a head burst from the blood and a nose was pressed against his own. Blue eyes bore into him. The fingers squeezing him were icy.

"You said you would protect me," Alfred told him. As he spoke, the skin began to slide off his face to join the swirling gore below. "You weren't there." Alfred's flesh made sickening _plop_ s as pieces sluiced off. Soon, all that was left was bone, just like his own legs. "You weren't there," Alfred's skull continued. The pulls got stronger. "Where were you, Ivan? _Where were you?_ "

The next thing he knew, he was keeling forward as Alfred yanked him. Alfred's shoulders disappeared into the mess, then his neck. Alfred was sinking into the pool, taking him with him, pulling him so close that his lips pressed against the bare bone of Alfred's jaw, were forced to kiss his naked teeth and taste the guilt that came with death triumphant—

Voices rushed to his ears as if an incoming tidal wave. They were slow and muffled, like he was submerged underwater and they were coming from above the surface. _The blood,_ he thought dazedly. _I'm in the blood…_

Lights as bright as stars hung over him, bathing his vision in white. There were blurred shadows moving across them, and he wanted to beg them to just stop _moving_ , he was so dizzy and something dreadful was bubbling in his stomach…

His throat contracted and he gagged, and then someone was rolling him onto his side. Everything shifted, and something rushed up his throat and spilled from his mouth. The shadows beside him scattered. He lay there, panting and gripping the edge of whatever he was lying on. It took him a few seconds to realize that he had just vomited. Pain shot through his stomach and he groaned.

He was rolled onto his back again just as he made out, "Too much morphine, you dumbass! What did I tell you? He's puking his guts up now."

"I'm sorry!" a younger voice squeaked.

The other _tch_ ed. "Get outta the way."

The blurred shapes that were now beginning to resemble human forms jostled around him, one shoving another out of his scope of vision. Hands cupped both sides of his face and turned his head so that he was staring blearily up at a pair of eyes and nothing else.

"Hey, can you hear me?"

Ivan was too dizzy to form words.

"Lift a finger if you can hear me."

It took a few moments for his brain to remember how to make the movement, but he managed to do it. The stranger's head dipped in relief, and only then did Ivan realize that the rest of the man's face was hidden behind a white surgical mask. "Okay," the man breathed. "Ivan, you're in safe hands. We've just finished sewing up your leg… there was a lot of dead tissue to clean up, but nothing too severe. You'll make a full recovery."

His leg. His eyes wandered down his torso until he could see his stump, bandaged tightly. He also saw that he was lying on a cot beneath a slope of gray nylon. Ahead of him was a slit in the material, sealed with thick plastic, zipped up securely. More figures moved around him, clad in white—masks and caps included. He could hear the low buzz of voices, some weaker or more desperate than others. There was the sound of clinking instruments, rolling carts, shuffling feet, rustling fabric. A tent. A tent full of broken things.

A younger man fluttered at his other side, the one who had given him too much morphine and made him ill. He was meek and twiggy, with big brown eyes that were swimming. He reminded Ivan of the youngest of the three brothers who used to live with him… who were they again? He could see their faces, but he couldn't remember their names. His head throbbed and he lifted a hand to press against it. He placed the other one flat against the crisp sheets and began to push himself up.

"Sir," the assistant tittered. He shuffled toward him, arms outstretched, intending to seize him and lower him back down. "Sir, you really shouldn't—"

Ivan jerked away from him, his head throbbing again from the quick movement. The man squeaked and back away. Ivan grunted, forced to use his other arm to hold himself up as the one already doing so almost gave out. He had a better view of what was left of his leg. He had known that it was gone shortly after waking, but seeing it again after what felt like so long was just as disheartening as his first observation. He hunched over and extended one of his hands to feel it. Reality struck him as his fingers traced over the bandaged stump. It was gone. It was really gone. Gordon was right. He was a cripple.

The older man stood and watched, understanding in his eyes. The younger stepped closer. "Sir—"

His superior held out an arm, and the assistant stopped his advances. They watched him for a little longer, then the older said, "We're needed elsewhere, but we'll be close if you need anything. I have informed Red of your condition. She will speak with you shortly. Just…" his eyes darted down to Ivan's stump and the fingers trailing over them, "try to get some rest for the time being. And mind that shoulder of yours." They left, the younger giving Ivan an apologetic look as he went.

As soon as they had disappeared between the milling forms of medics and rolling gurneys, Ivan's hand immediately went to his shoulder. His fingertips met heavy bandages, and an ache shot up his arm as he pressed against it. " _Ебать_ ," he grunted, and he peered around. No one was near him—he had been allocated his own part of the tent. Only a few spared him glances, and often they were curt and almost fearful. Sometimes, they were glazed with pity. It made Ivan swell with frustration.

A minute passed. Then five. Ivan was in the act of shuffling on his cot so that his remaining leg hung off the side when he heard, "Whoa, there, ruski. Doesn't it seem a bit early for you to be hobbling off anywhere?"

It was Red. She was still smeared with soot, and blood was still oozing from her wounds. "You say that and yet you stand here looking like you need a bed more than I do," Ivan retorted irritably.

Red scoffed. Annoyance twinged in Ivan's temples. Before she could mention his lack of a leg, he said, "Where is everyone?"

Red raised an eyebrow. "You mean, 'where is Alfred', right? Look, I may not like the idea of you porking my dad, but you'll only make it worse if you act like he's not your first priority. Shit like that doesn't get by me easily anyway."

This would be the point in a conversation when Ivan would just walk away—or punch the person speaking in the teeth. As if he could do either. So he just gave her an exasperated look and said, "Where is everyone— _especially_ Alfred?" He almost said 'Fredka', but that would have been embarrassing, and Red didn't need anything else in her arsenal of insults for him.

His fingers itched to slap the wisp of a smirk off her smug face. "He's… resting. As for everyone else, well…"

Ivan sensed something off. "What do you mean?"

"About Alfred? He was found and brought back to camp. He was a bit… hysterical, so we gave him something to let him sleep for a while."

Ivan stiffened and narrowed his eyes. "You drugged him?"

Red didn't even blink an eye at his change in attitude. She merely said, "He had a lot on his mind, and it was too much for him to take in his physical state. If we just let him ride it out, he would have gone into shock. It was in his best interest that he be made unconscious.

"Why didn't you bring him to me?" Ivan demanded. "Why didn't you let him see that I was okay? It could have eased his mind."

"You were still being patched up, and we were afraid that if he saw you being operated on with one of your legs missing, it might tip him over the edge."

As angry as Ivan was that Alfred couldn't be here, he knew deep down that Red's argument was logical. He huffed and said, "Is he hurt?"

Red was studying her boots. "Yeah. His head got banged up really bad, one of his fingers is broken, he has some nasty-looking bruises, and someone shanked him in the gut. He's all patched up now and the bleeding has more or less stopped, but…"

" _But_?" Ivan urged.

Red sighed. "He's experienced substantial emotional distress."

Ivan's patience was wearing entirely too thin. "Stop with all this cryptic bullshit. Tell me outright, or I will find out myself!" he snapped. He didn't want to quell his anger, because that would mean contemplating the very likely possibility that his conversation with Arthur had been the last he would ever have with the man. And, for some reason, he couldn't except that.

Red didn't look up at him, and the next time she spoke her voice seemed… heavy. Then she lifted her head, and she couldn't hide the emotion behind her eyes—not completely, at least, but there was something there, something he couldn't identify. It scared him more than it rightfully should. "What happened?" he said more quietly, encouragingly.

Red was silent for a long moment, all the while Ivan's heart in his throat. Then she said, talking to the floor, "I… when Alfred wakes up and everyone's gathered, we can talk. Right now, though… I think it'll be best if we can all talk together." She stopped leaning on his cot and straightened. "Get some rest in the mean time. I will come and get you when the time comes."

Ivan wanted to strangle her out of sheer desperation to hear an explanation as much as he wanted to get up and run through the camp and see what was going on himself. But he did neither. All he could do was watch her walk away. Afterward, he lowered himself back down onto the cot and stared at the sloping ceiling of the tent. He didn't know how long he stared, but all he could think about was how helpless he was, how he had to take orders from someone as young as Red to stay put, because he could do nothing else.

 _It's true,_ he thought, Arthur's face swimming in his mind's eye. _The bastard really did it. He's… he's…_

Concern gradually exhausted him. Sleep came over Ivan without him knowing he had surrendered to it.

* * *

Embryonic. That was the closest thing he could think of to describe his situation. He was an embryo, curled and helpless, cocooned by sloping walls that made every noise outside sound muffled and distorted. Occasionally, something broke off and skipped down past him on the other side, and he would clench his hand around the locket that was burned into his palm in anticipation of a rockslide. Time trickled on, unbearably slow. It was so dark that he couldn't make out if it was day or night. Soon, the wind he heard licking the rocks and the tumbling pebbles formed a kind of lullaby, making him drowsy. Or perhaps it was because he had been tense for so long that he simply couldn't convince his muscles to react anymore. He felt terribly cramped, scrunched up into a ball and afraid to move out of fear of disrupting the delicate balance of the pile. A jag of rock was sticking out beneath him, and he had to remind himself to remain in a ball as to avoid being jabbed painfully in his injured back. Everything in him ached; it felt like someone had taken a meat tenderizer to all of his muscles and spared him no mercy. His arms were folded up against him, and his neck was in an awkward position where it was perpetually cricked. Every once in a while, a jolt of pain would course down his spine.

He didn't know how long he waited. For death or for rescue, he wasn't sure. But as minutes turned into hours and hours seemed to stretch into days, he was sure that death would be the one to find him. He began to get terribly claustrophobic, and, at one point, in his desire to get out—just get out, _get out_ —he came close to kicking out so that the rocks would pile in on him and crush the life out of him. But then he remembered his wrists, still wrapped in tatters of bandages, and knew he wouldn't have the strength to off himself. So he waited.

Soon, the pain began to ebb into a sort of floating numbness, and then he couldn't feel anything. His mind had also become fuzzy, and he found it quite difficult to remember his thoughts. But instead of worrying him, these developments put him at ease. No more pain. No more worry. His eyes were getting heavier and heavier… he could finally sleep…

He drifted off to follow the voices he heard in what he thought were his dreams in his semi-conscious state, but as soon as he shut his eyes, he forgot all about them and time and everything else that had slowly lost importance…

The voices came back to him first. It seemed like they had only been gone for five minutes. He lay there and listened for a moment. He still felt numb and drowsy, but as the sounds grew louder and clearer, his senses returned.

Was he dead? He couldn't be alive—he shouldn't be—

He peeled his eyes open; it was as if he was looking through wax paper. Then there was a shout close by, and someone flitted into his view, giving him enough focus to clear his vision.

"Mattie— _Mattie_!"

Matthew struggled to identify the person wrapping their arms around him, but then someone across the room called, "Alfred! You should not be moving!"

The weight that was Alfred lifted from Matthew's chest to crane his neck around and cry, his voice thick with emotion, "Ivan, look, he's awake. _Mattie's awake, come and see_!"

There was a distinct step, _clunk_ , step, _clunk_ , step, _clunk_ , and then another figure was leaning over him. Matthew shifted his gaze, and Ivan came into focus, bedraggled and paler than usual, but wearing a wisp of a smile. "So he is," he said, his voice scratchy. "Welcome back, Matvey."

Matthew blinked a few times and shifted on the bed he was laying in. Ivan extended a hand and gripped Alfred's shoulder, tugging him back to give the Canadian room. Matthew took advantage and sat up, swaying a bit as his vision erupted with black spots, and his head suddenly felt full of air. Alfred moved to steady him, but Ivan still had a hold of him and forced him to remain in place, though a tiny gasp escaped him. Matthew grabbed the side of the cot and found his balance again, his vision clearing and weight returning to his head like a block of lead. It pounded, and a hand shot to his temple. He gritted his teeth and groaned, rubbing the spot, then slid the hand down to his neck, which had begun to exhibit that familiar ache he had felt while caught under the rockslide. Only then did Matthew have the chance to examine where he was.

A white tent. After having been in the dark for so long, it was startlingly bright, and he had to squint for a while before getting used to it. He was laying in a cot under crisp linens. A line led from his wrist to an IV stand beside him. A small fold-up table next to him held a canteen of water and some saltines. Matthew went for the canteen and drank until there was nothing left, then stuffed a cracker into his mouth. He had never tasted anything so good in his life.

"Whoa, whoa, there," Alfred reasoned, taking hold of Matthew's wrist to prevent him from going for another cracker. "Anymore of that, and you'll make yourself sick."

Matthew took his hand back and set it in his lap, realizing that he had been so obsessed with quenching his thirst and sating his hunger, he had neglected to breathe properly. He took the opportunity to do so, the others watching him intently.

Then he said, "Where—" His voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "Where am I?"

"Safe," Alfred said with a warm look.

"You are in the Resistance camp," Ivan told him, ignoring the look Alfred flashed him that judged his blunt response. "The medics have tended to you. They found you passed out cold."

"Found me?" Matthew grunted, pushing back his hair and finding it clean and soft. "How long was I unconscious?"

"Four hours," Alfred replied. "A team was sent out to search for you, and one of them just happened to see the light glinting off of that locket you had in your hand. Twenty minutes longer, and you might not have been alive."

"The locket," Matthew murmured, knowing that it was significant but not knowing how. "Do you have it?"

Alfred reached into his pocket and pulled it out, presenting it to him. Matthew took the misshapen heart locket into his hand to study it. "Ollie," he recalled.

"What?" Alfred asked.

"Nothing," Matthew said. He wrapped the chain of the locket around his wrist for safekeeping and noticed the bandage on his palm. He unwrapped it, not knowing exactly why, hearing Alfred begin to urge him not to and Ivan hush him in return. Matthew discarded the gauze, stained brown with dried blood, and stared at the mark on his palm.

Silence persisted for a long minute. "That burn," Alfred said at last, "it's pretty nasty. And deep. They said it will never fully heal. You'll have a scar."

Matthew thought of the scars on his wrists and found his lips lifting a bit at the corners. A new scar. For a new life. "I won't mind," Matthew said, his fingers brushing over the heart-shaped burn, not regretting the way it stung, "having this for the rest of my life."

Alfred looked as if he was prepared to get up and hug him when the sound of a zipper being pulled redirected their attentions to the flap of the tent. Red was standing there.

"Uncle Matt," she greeted. "Nice to see you breathing."

"Likewise," Matthew replied with a feeble wave.

"That is everyone," Ivan stated without preamble. "Shall we begin?"

Red sighed deeply. "Yeah, I s'ppose. I'll get them." And she left, pulling the zipper up behind her.

Matthew eyed Ivan in question, and the Russian said. "We agreed that all of the surviving nations would meet when everyone was in fit enough condition. You were the last one we had to wait for."

Matthew's heart dropped like a stone. _Surviving?_ But continuing his interrogation at this time would be foolish, considering that a meeting would soon be held to answer all of the questions he had burning within him. He swallowed and said, "Sorry to keep you waiting."

Alfred smiled and laughed a little, though it was a weak, feathery laugh. "Always apologizing. It's good to know that you haven't changed, little bro."

 _I'm older than you, you know,_ Matthew wanted to remind him, but at that moment he found that he considered the name as more of an endearment than anything else. He, after all, could have easily not heard it said at all if something unfortunate had befallen either one of them. Even little things like that meant the world to him. So he answered with a smile.

Step, _clunk_ , step, _clunk_ —Ivan was on the move again, pacing with impatience, and Matthew's eyes were drawn to the source of his strange, uneven footsteps. What he saw made his mouth go dry.

"H-his leg," he squeaked, intending the words for Alfred's ears only, but Ivan heard them nonetheless. The Russian stopped and turned to look at him, his violet eyes reflecting a man trying to piece his pride back together. His gaze made Matthew hold his breath.

"My leg," he said simply, "is nothing compared to my life." But as much as his tone supported his statement, the same assurance did not reach his eyes.

Ivan turned away after that, and continued his pacing, balanced on a crutch—step, _clunk_ , step, _clunk_ , step, _clunk_. Matthew tried his best not to look at Alfred, whom he was sure would be ashamed if caught wiping away tears. The Canadian swallowed again. He wished he hadn't drunk all of that water in one go.

The sound of rapid footsteps made them all lift their heads. The flap was unzipped again and Francis came rushing in. Within moments, Matthew was being crushed in a watery embrace.

"You're awake," Francis said, half-sobbing. "You're alive. My Matthieu, oh mon coeur…"

Matthew couldn't help it. At the feel of Francis's arms around him, he began to bawl like a child. "Papa," was all he could get out. "Papa."

Francis rubbed his back and held the Canadian's head to his shoulder, letting him muffle his sobs. "Mon chou, mon petit chou… I thought you—you were missing, and I—"

"I'm here," Matthew croaked. "Papa, I'm here."

"Oui, merci Dieu, you are."

"Ve, Matthew's awake! Look, Luddy!"

"Ja, Feli, I see."

Matthew and Francis pulled apart to watch the parade of nations hobbling in. Some were limping, some were supported by others, and Yao was being pushed in a dilapidated wheelchair, guiding Kiku with his voice. Matthew sat and counted everyone present, running the names through his head. He got to the end of the line and went through all the names again and found one missing. At first, it was nothing significant; he could be standing behind someone or somewhere that Matthew couldn't see him, or perhaps Matthew had simply skipped over him. Such a possibility wouldn't be out of the question, seeing as he had suffered some trauma to his head and had also just woken up. But as he went over them again and again— _Francis,_ _Ludwig, Feliciano, Yao, Kiku, Alfred—_ his chest tightened with doubt. He anxiously fixed his gaze to the open flap of the tent, expecting to see Arthur come marching in, looking all moody and ruffled as usual. But the person he saw enter was Red, and without hesitation she zipped the flap up. The harsh _eeeeeek_ sound that zipper made sealing off all entry to the tent was enough to get Matthew's heart hammering.

Alfred made an odd sound in his throat that had Matthew tearing his gaze away from the group gathered, but he couldn't see his brother's face. He was hiding it in a hand. His ragged breathing, however, was enough to confirm his distress. Ivan took notice immediately and walked over to stand beside him. He didn't extend a hand of comfort nor mutter condolences. He just stood there, close enough for his side to brush against Alfred's shoulder. Alfred became quieter in response, but the sounds were still there and he kept his hand in place. Matthew wanted so much to comfort the man himself, but he was afraid of the repercussions—what he might hear about the source of his misery.

Red situated herself at the center of the circle they had formed.

"All right. Time to lay some shit out."

No one spoke for a while after that. Eyes wandered until they met with counterparts, then turned downward. There were a few shuffles of feet and an occasional cough. All of the noise coming from outside seemed to lessen, the silence pervading the tent was so terribly deafening. Red had lost her usual defiant spark and was merely standing with her arms loosely crossed, staring at a point that seemed far beyond the opposite wall of the tent.

Ludwig cleared his throat. The sound reverberated like a gong and sent hearts racing and heads shooting up.

All of the eyes on him made Ludwig shift his gaze to the floor. "Um… we should begin by announcing our current status."

Red sighed; she knew that, at one point or another, she would have to speak. "We—" Her voice broke. She coughed and continued, "We have achieved our goal. Operation Checkmate has been carried out successfully. Our objective has been met. The Organization has been toppled and the Overlord destroyed. Our artillery took out the Board and the Council. All members that managed to escape have been located and are awaiting questioning. Resistance scouts have been ordered to execute all remaining enemy soldiers. It is a mercy that the Overlord would not grant them."

"And the captives?" Kiku croaked.

"Safe," Red replied. "All of those who could escape the battle, that is. Some are critically injured and the medics are tending to them to the best of their abilities. We have begun taking requests from the captives to search for friends or family members who may be missing or dead. Scouts have been sent out. All bodies found will be identified and put to rest according to their living friends' or family members' wishes."

"How is your team?" Ivan asked. While Red may be a nuisance, he held most of the men who were closest to her in great respect, possibly because they had been the only people he had met in a long while who seemed truly determined to right the world.

Red ran a hand through her messy hair, somehow making it even more mussed. "Well, Dan is alive. He's getting a steady stream of drugs to help him calm down. Other than him, everyone else is gone."

" _Everyone_?" Ivan exclaimed, astonished.

Red nodded sadly. "Afraid so. Bernard suffocated under the rubble of the Washington Monument when that helicopter hit it, Todd was shot at the Database Facility, Shawn was found with his head bashed in, and Evans was taken captive shortly after succeeding in cutting off communication lines. Apparently, the opposition meant to interrogate him. I sent men to fetch him back, but instead of giving him up, the Organization had him executed. As far as I was told by those who had taken out his executioners, one of the Organization's men had admitted before he was killed that he nor any of the others had managed to wring any information out of Evans. He was a good man. They all were. I was hoping to put them in charge of the reconstruction, but…" She trailed off with a shake of her head.

Ever since he had heard Red say Shawn's name, Ludwig hadn't been able to stop himself from fidgeting. Once he had noticed that he was wringing his hands, he promptly held them behind his back, only to find out that he was chewing rather violently at his lip. He felt a hand brush against his side and turned his head to see Feliciano staring at him worriedly.

"Luddy…?" he murmured in question.

And, of course, that made everyone look at them.

Ludwig chafed under the pressure. Although he was nervous about how his explanation would be received, he didn't know how well Red would take it. He straightened and said, "I… Shawn attacked me while I was in the tunnels."

There was suspicious and surprised muttering all around. Red raised her eyebrows. "I never took Shawn to be the traitor type." Yet, even as she said this her expression remained prompting, as if knowing that Ludwig didn't mean to accuse Shawn of such a thing.

"He isn't," Ludwig said quickly. "I mean, he _wasn't_ … at the time I believe he was being controlled by the Overlord."

"You _believe_?"

"Ja, well… he told me. He pursued me and tried to kill me… but then there was an explosion, and he became trapped beneath some debris. He told me his legs were crushed… he seemed to be back to himself at the time. I tried everything I could do to save him, but he was stuck." Here, Ludwig's voice went quiet. "I-I was going to find help, but he told me to… to kill him, that there was no time and he was in pain and…" Ludwig held a hand to his face, willing himself not to recall the helpless, desperate look in Shawn's eyes as the man asked him to finish him off. "I… did it."

Feliciano tried to take his hand, but Ludwig moved his hand away, not wanting any of the taint that came with killing a comrade to touch the Italian. He could almost feel Red's eyes burning into him. Then she said, "I'm grateful that you did so. Shawn was a smart man and knew his limits. If I had been asked to grant him such a wish, I would have done so without hesitation. He deserved to have that right, seeing how much hard work he put into building the Resistance." Ludwig took his hand from his face to meet Red's eyes in astonishment. The woman cleared her throat rather thickly, as if trying to swallow her grief, then continued, with a respectful nod in Ludwig's direction, "You did what was right, and for that I thank you."

Ludwig's fingers uncurled from a stiff fist, leaving them dangling with relief at his side. Feliciano took hold of his hand this time and held it just tight enough to communicate that he knew what Ludwig was going through.

 _It must have been hard,_ Feliciano thought as he tried to seem like he didn't notice that Ludwig was trying to stop the tremors running through him, _to do something like that._ Ludwig was not in the least bit soft and did not hesitate when it came to killing those who sought to kill him or anything else he cared about, but to be confronted with an ally begging him for death—it had made him stop long enough to truly contemplate the idea. It wasn't as if he had a choice. It was either leave Shawn to die a slow, painful death or grant his wish and finish him off quickly. Ludwig had been trapped by camaraderie and pity and had done what he thought most merciful. Now, it was obvious that the man was unsure of whether or not doing something that extreme could be considered mercy. Feliciano appreciated Red's response, but at the same time he felt no less settled than when Ludwig had first opened up to him about the incident.

 _If only I'd had the strength,_ Feliciano thought, anger roiling inside him, _I would have given Tony the death he deserved._ But then he wouldn't have stopped the message from being sent. He ground his teeth in frustration. _Lovino said I should have been this angry when he first found me,_ Feliciano recalled. Their conversation on the flight to the United States had been short and tense, but he remembered those words clearly, how he could never fathom possessing even a hint of rage. Back then he had been soft. Now, he knew. He would never again be the person he once was, and, while the fact served to further ignite his outrage at the Overlord for changing him, it also gave him a small sense of satisfaction. _You were doomed to fail from the start,_ he mused, picturing Tony's twisted laugh and greedy eyes. _You sought to make us weak, but now we know how truly strong we are._ And they would get stronger. Feliciano's hand tightened around Ludwig's own.

Yao wet his lips. "The Overlord," he said quietly. "Did we find out who he was?"

Alfred let out a feathery hiccup and Red said, "Tony. The alien." Alfred's breath hitched. Red noted his shock at her knowing such information and explained, "There was a code needed to get into the Women's Sector. It was the date of Tony's landing on Earth."

"An alien?" Ivan parroted incredulously. " _An alien_?"

"I never thought much about him," Matthew admitted. "Honestly, I viewed him as just another one of Alfred's weird pets. I never thought he was capable…" His voice trailed off into contemplative silence.

"The purpose of his landing was to take over this planet in the name of his race," Feliciano explained. All gazes shifted to him, his professional tone foreign to their ears. "Jeanne captured me and took me to HQ and made me watch her give birth to an alien-human hybrid she had been carrying ever since we met her. I killed her and the hybrid and then stopped the message from being sent to Tony's employers stating that the planet was ready for habitation. Alfred fended off the guards and got us out."

"Who killed Tony, then?" Matthew asked, everything in him stiffening suspiciously when he was met with silence and averted eyes. "Alfred?"

The man beside him let out a sob, hiding his face in both of his hands, his fingers pulling almost mercilessly at his own hair as if in self-flagellation. "I couldn't… save him…" he ground out through gritted teeth, his voice shivery.

Matthew couldn't breathe for a moment. "What… what do you mean? Al…"

"He's dead!" Alfred shouted so suddenly that everyone jumped. He lifted his head and fixed his brother with wet, bloodshot eyes. "Artie—that alien bastard killed him… if I didn't have those fucking guards on my ass then I could have ripped the fucker's head off like he fucking deserved… Artie, you dumb fuck, if only you'd w-waited a little longer… I could have helped… Artie, goddammit…"

Matthew's heart seemed to stop beating for a moment. "Arthur…?"

Alfred's only reply was another sob.

Ivan moved to put a comforting hand on Alfred's shoulder. Matthew caught the Russian's gaze, his eyes wide and pleading for another answer—any other answer—but Ivan only lowered his eyes and continued running his hand up and down Alfred's hunched, quivering back. All Matthew could do was stare, not entirely comprehending what was happening.

Beside him, Francis seized him, meaning to console him, and cursing himself when he instead broke down in tears. Someone had reached into his chest and scooped out his heart. He was hollow. As long as he lived, no one would ever fill the emptiness inside him. No one except Arthur, who was now lost to him forever.

"He's gone," Matthew breathed. He was in such a state of shock that he felt detached from himself, to the extent that he couldn't move, couldn't even feel grief. He just sat there, with Francis holding him and Alfred's cries ringing in his ears.

Red allowed everyone a few minutes of mourning before clearing her through rather shakily. Alfred manage to subdue his sobs long enough to look up at her, seeing her scratch at the side of her nose, but knowing that she was really wiping her eyes before anyone would notice. "We will bury Arthur tonight. Arlington is just across the river. There's a cherry blossom tree there that still blooms each spring—one of the only ones left in the district; rioters burned all they could. It's a beautiful tree. I think it would be fitting."

Alfred offered her a sad smile, tears swimming in his eyes. "Yeah… yeah, that's perfect. He liked to visit when the trees were in bloom."

Red's eyes moved to meet her father's, but she quickly looked away, feeling tears of her own building up. _Dammit, Dad. Why do you have to look like that?_ She pretended to scratch her nose again and used wiped the wetness from beneath her eyes with a knuckle.

A hand warmed Alfred's knee and he peered down to see Ivan kneeling next to him and studying him worriedly. "Do you need more medicine?" he asked, and by the tone in his voice Alfred knew that Ivan wouldn't be bringing up medicine unless he thought Alfred would sincerely need it, he despised the stuff so much.

Alfred covered the hand with his own and tried to give Ivan a reassuring smile. The Russian's concerned expression, however, only became all the more lined. "No, Ivan. Thank you."

A few minutes passed in which all that could be heard were the all-too-familiar sounds of grief. Then Kiku said, "We must start over now." He stared blindly down at Yao's bandages, his hands tightening around the handles of the wheelchair he had come to hate with a passion. "Have we heard anything about the rest of the world?" _What about the Golden Temple, Kinkaku-ji?_ Kiku mused. _We are supposed to stand there someday, just Yao-chan and I._

"I checked as soon as I returned with Feli and everyone else," Ludwig reported. His face was pale and he seemed to stiffen with every whimper or half-sob Alfred or Francis made. "There is evidence from the Organization's files that they have kept in communication with 'overseas associates', but ever since the takedown all channels have been quiet."

Red nodded. "I have people listening. They'll be sure to inform us should they hear anything."

"It is strange. It's like we are all alone in the world…" Yao muttered, half to himself.

"Maybe they're scared," Feliciano suggested, recalling the time before he had been rescued by Lovino and how scared he himself had been.

"Da," Ivan said, although his tone was doubtful, "maybe."

Matthew came back to himself. Francis had settled into soft, feathery gasps, still clinging to him but not as tightly as before. The Canadian sat back and held Francis by his shoulders. The man looked a wreck. His eyes were red and puffy, his hair was soiled and unkempt, he wasn't making any attempt to stem his streaming nose—this wasn't the Francis he knew or wanted to see. The Frenchman sat there, hunched and swaying, as if he had been crying long before he had entered the tent and the last stint had exhausted him completely. Matthew pulled him down onto his cot and laid the sheets over him.

"I think… I think that we should rest a bit before the funeral," Matthew said quietly, laying down beside Francis. He held the man like Francis once held him after he'd lost someone he loved. The tent went silent again as he felt Francis's breath even out and deepen. He submitted to the worry-free peace of sleep before he heard everyone take their leave, Ivan's step, _thunk_ , step, _thunk_ as he guided a distraught Alfred out. It was so much to take in, too much. Matthew would fall asleep and see them. Carlos, Sadiq, Arthur, the others who had lost their lives to such a vicious cause—he would see them all. And so would Francis.

 _No scars this time,_ he thought as he watched Francis's sides rise and fall with breath. _I won't let you do something as stupid as I did back in those woods where we buried Sadiq. It's my turn now, Papa. I'll take care of you._

* * *

Translations:

 _ _Ебать__ -Fuck

 _mon coeur-_ my heart

 _mon petit chou-_ my dear

 _Aeternum vale-_ Farewell forever

A Word From the Writer: Wanna huggle Canada so hard! ;_;

Yup, so... not really very many excuses aside from Netflix and Pewdiepie... I just pulled into procrastination station and decided to hang around for a while. But the train is approaching its last stop! The next chapter will be the last (I _think_ ) and be prepared for more feels, because you just can't have enough feels with this fic. Again, dunno when I will post it (only just got this chapter finished yesterday, eheh), but this fic WILL be finished. And after all of this drama and action I figured I should follow up with a smut series. Not really any plot, just pure smut. I'll tell you more about it next chapter.

Now, back to brofisting and bullshitting. :D


	126. Silver Glass

**You guys thought it wasn't ever gonna happen, huh? Well, didn't you think wrong! Merry Christmas!**

Warning: Death, grief, depressing content.

Disclaimer: I DO NOT OWN HETALIA. I have fun manipulating their characters, though

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_"End? No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it."_

—J.R.R. Tolkien

**Silver Glass**

They headed out at sunset. They lifted Arthur's body, wrapped in the cleanest white sheet they could find, into the back of a van and left for the cemetery. No one spoke. There was no need. All concept of time fled Francis. One moment, they were on the Arlington Memorial Bridge, and the next they were rolling down the streets between large swaths of tombstones, made uneven by shelling. Everything was covered in shimmering whiteness, so pure that it made the marble tombstones glow. The unrest hadn't touched there for a while, it looked like. The place appeared so fragile that he was hesitant to set foot outside of the van for fear of shattering one of the only good things left in the world.

Matthew took his hand. "Papa," he said. "It's okay."

Francis felt like he was walking through clouds, far above all of the bloody destruction below. He could have been dreaming if only his grief didn't make every step feel leaden. He stood back and watched the others pull Arthur's body from the trunk, the wind tugging at his clothes and hair, but he hardly felt the chill. Red had initially offered to have of a couple of her own men carry Arthur to the site, but Alfred had refused outright. Now the man was taking Arthur into his arms, eyes downcast and arms tight around him. He stood there for a moment, everyone watching him and waiting for his move. Then he turned and began making his way up the snow-covered path. The others followed, except for Francis. He just stared after the procession for a moment in awe. How could a place so beautiful be the center of something so tragic? He couldn't understand it, and, for a moment he felt like he was floating above everything, too displaced to move. Until Matthew looped an arm through his and gave him a warm enough smile to melt his frozen feet from the ground. The steps, however, were still leaden.

All that could be heard was the buffeting of the wind and the crunching of snow beneath worn boot soles. Red walked beside Alfred, guiding him with a gentle hand on his elbow, up hills, sometimes picking their way through gravestones cracked, shattered, and occasionally missing but for a few lingering pieces of rubble.

"Who would do something like this?" Matthew muttered, his breath a mist before his pale lips.

"Desperate people," Yao replied tonelessly as he clung to Ludwig's back, the German's arms holding the man up around his waist. "Lost people."

Francis had been in a daze for the entire trek, but as soon as he heard Red say, "It's just up here," it felt like someone had punched him in the stomach. Reality caught up with him so fast that Francis was forced to stop.

 _Arthur's gone,_ Francis thought, clutching his roiling belly. _He's gone. He's dead. We're going to bury him. Oh God._

Matthew watched Francis worriedly as the man winced, fingers digging into the material of his coat. "P-Papa, are you— _Jesus_." Francis had bent double and retched with a horrible, strangled sound. No sooner had he caught his breath than the man started to sob. Matthew rushed to pull him into his arms, rubbing his back. He said nothing; he knew no words would be able to soothe the man. The others merely watched for a few moments longer before turning and continuing on their way. Francis needed to be alone for a minute. They'd all had similar experiences; they knew that Francis had to help himself before progress could be made, and that step was the hardest of all, especially with an audience. Matthew stayed behind, holding him and cursing himself for being unable to keep in his own tears for Francis's sake. Like the man needed more on his mind as it was.

The rest of the group arrived at another swath of ground that was littered with demolished gravestones. They traipsed through the snow, Red leading the way, their limbs seeming to grow stiffer by the step. Red angled toward a tree in the near distance, and Alfred clutched Arthur to him so tightly they could have molded together. This was it. As the bare, spindly branches of the cherry blossom came into focus, so too did the thought of lowering Arthur into the ground, covering him with earth, being unable to look at him, touch him…

He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn't notice he had reached the site and had stopped, staring at the place where the snow clumped around the base of the trunk. He only became aware when Red turned to him and said all too softly, "Dad?"

The grave had already been dug, Alfred saw. Red must have had one of her men come out earlier. That made Alfred's stomach turn over. He had been hoping that the grave would be dug while they were there so that he could spend a little more time with Arthur before giving him over to the earth for safekeeping. But no; this was it. He buried his face in Arthur's hair.

 _I don't want to let you go, Artie._ He felt his eyes sting, and he half expected Arthur to wake up, bunch those bushy brows together, and scold him for acting like such an irrational child. The thought brought on more memories of Arthur—grouchy, sarcastic, smiling, snooty Arthur. Arthur flipping him off. Arthur crocheting. Arthur talking to his invisible friends. Arthur squeezing his hand.

Cold cut through the material of his pants; he had dropped to his knees, cradling Arthur close to him and sobbing into his chest. "I'm sorry," he breathed between quivering hiccups. "I'm sorry I couldn't s-save you. Forgive me. Forgive me, please. I couldn't…"

No one knew quite what to do. Nothing they could say could comfort him. He had lost someone who had been a father figure, a guardian, a rolemodel, a voice of reason, and a best friend. As all of the roles Arthur had played in Alfred's life rushed through his mind, he remembered those times when he had hurt Arthur and thought nothing of it. He had never apologized, had never seen any reason to, Arthur had hidden his emotions so well. But now that he looked back, he began to see opportunities where he should have noticed and should have known better, should have comforted him like Arthur had once comforted his younger self. How could Alfred not have seen this? More and more images were pulled from his memories and more and more he saw missed chances to apologize, to be there, to tell Arthur that he did care, that he didn't hate him, that he had loved Arthur even through the rough patches. He wished that he'd had the sense to at least tell Arthur that he had missed him dreadfully when he had left, that when next he saw the man he had to restrain himself from running up and embracing him by forcing himself to be cold, to be distant. Those had been the only things that held him together but at the same time slowly strangled him.

Why, _why_ , when Arthur was dying in his arms, had he not told him everything? All he could think of at the time was that he loved Arthur—he loved him so, so much and maybe, just maybe that knowledge would help him live. But no, Arthur was dead, he was holding his cold, limp body in his arms, wrapped in a shameful excuse of a burial shroud, on his knees at the edge of his grave, looking down into the cold, dark, deep pit Alfred was going to leave him in, smothered under all of that soil, unable to see him, to touch him, to even think about him without imagining him in a state of decay, all of those insects gnawing all that he used to be away. It seemed so cruel just to dump him like a sack of garbage, to cover him up as if he were unsightly. The very thought made Alfred whimper and curl into what was left of his everything.

He could almost imagine Arthur's spirit standing over him, arms folded and eyebrows knitted together in utter disgust of his childish attachment. _You never listen to a thing I tell you,_ Arthur's irritated voice echoed in his head. _Didn't I tell you not to give up, or am I right in suspecting that you went completely deaf to reason centuries ago? You're sitting here crying over a fact of life. Tears will solve nothing. If you want to cry, you might as well climb down into the grave yourself, for all the use you'll be. But be warned that if you do, I'll be eternally kicking your dumb arse._

Alfred would have laughed if indeed Arthur had been standing next to him, referring to some other deceased person that shouldn't matter one whit. But Arthur was dead and the body in Alfred's arms was that very man, someone whom he deeply loved. He couldn't imagine not hearing Arthur's voice, not seeing him, just… not talking to him. Actually talking and actually listening to him. God, he would be happy living the rest of his life mute if only he could hear Arthur speak to him, tell him those stories he was so good at telling.

He was so lost in his memories of Arthur that he came close to tumbling into the grave when he felt a hand rest on his shoulder. He lifted his face from Arthur's cold form and saw Francis kneeling down beside him. As haggard as he appeared, he managed convey to Alfred that everything was okay, that Arthur was safe and happy, and that he would have wanted him to let go so that he could continue living. Francis rose to his feet and offered Alfred a hand. Alfred cradled Arthur's body in one arm as he was helped up. He stared down into the grave, feeling like he was falling into it just by looking, and then Francis squeezed his hand. Alfred looked up, Francis giving him a gentle nod and a smile although his cheeks were shining with wetness. _I made a promise to you, and I'll keep it. Sleep well, Artie._ Alfred pressed his lips into Arthur's hair, pulled the off-white sheet over the dead man's pale face. And he lowered Arthur into the grave. The tips of his fingers brushed the material of Arthur's shroud for a moment that felt like a lifetime—and then he let go.

It was hard to hear Arthur's body fall into the grave. It was hard for everyone. No one knew what to say once everything was ready. They were still getting over the shock of seeing Arthur in such a place of finality. It didn't seem possible.

_"If I go—whether it be today, or tomorrow, or a few weeks from now—I would see you smile again. Because… it got me through a great deal, no matter if I wasn't sappy enough to admit it."_

_Why did you ask that of me?_ Alfred thought forlornly. _How can I smile at something so sad?_ His throat convulsed again, and he had immense trouble silencing his grief as it was. He feared he had forgotten how to smile.

Francis cleared his throat beside him. "Ivan told me what you said." A small noise close to a whimper rose in his throat before he could suppress it. Then he continued, addressing the crumpled sack that lay in the ground, a beacon among the dark night of eternity. "I… I meant what I said back in the bunker. I know I've done… a lot of things to contradict it, but I-I love you, Arthur. I hoped that w-we could be—" Francis felt a sob coming on and took a deep, feathery breath to contain it. "But, I suppose it wasn't meant to be. Even though you're… not here, I want you to know that the short time we had together felt like a million years. Every… e-every time I was with you, it felt like eternity was spread out before us—time didn't matter, it wasn't even a concept. I-I know you're p-probably laughing right now, but," Francis gave a sad, quivering laugh, "I have to say this, because I was too stupid not to say it before. Like always, I-I was caught up in the vision of what we could have as opposed to what we did have. And what we had… oh God, cher, what we _had_. I never imagined ever having… and then I did, but I was… I d-didn't tell you all I had been feeling, all I needed to tell you. That is why I promise, once a year on a certain day, I _promise_ , cherí, to visit you, here, and tell you one story about us and about how that story made me love you more than I already did. I will come on the day we first met—you know the date. But, seeing as t-today is the day we p-part, I will make an exception. You probably know the story already…

"I was wandering through the woods after having docked on your shores. I came alone; I was afraid that if I brought soldiers with me that it would frighten a potential nation away. I settled down in the forest for the night to await your arrival, and I ended up falling asleep. I was awoken some time later, when it was still dark and the moon was high in the sky, by a voice in a glade just beyond the small stream where I had made camp. I followed it.

"I had heard about you from pioneers, but their description of you did no justice to your image. When I saw you, with your scruffy hair and glowing green eyes, clad in rustic roughspun, wool, and skins, my first thought was that the pioneers were telling the truth: you were a barbarian, a naïve child who was deaf and dumb to the world. But as I watched you sit in the moonlight and babble on to your faerie friends, I knew that you were someone special. Never before had I met someone so insolent, commanding, and almost recklessly cheerful as you.

"I don't know how you saw me hiding in those bushes, but you did. And I was astonished at the ferocity I was met with, despite you being so young and small and armed only with a small knife. I was amused, and even though it was obvious that I was laughing at you, you weren't in the least bit embarrassed. You did not back down. You chased me away, and you did so for three days after on every instance that you saw me. The more I watched you in secret, the more I saw you confront me with such determination, the more and more I felt that I must get to know you. That you were someone very special. I did not know why at the time, but I kept finding you and came back every time you chased me away, cursing me and threatening to use some sort of magic to kill off my relatives and the like.

"Then, on the fourth day, I found you sitting in a tree. When I stepped out of hiding, you shouted at me to go away, and I challenged you to come down and fight me. The instant you dropped down from the tree and I whipped out my sword, I was enraptured. I was absorbed in your wonder at all of the things I showed you from my homeland—the sword, the coinage, even my garments—and I was astonished at all of the things you knew and had experienced yourself. We traded stories and information avidly until sunset, and then you took me to a spot rumored to be magical and that would bring sweet dreams to those who lay there. So I laid there with you beside me while I explained the names of the stars and drew constellations in the sky while you argued that the stars had different names and the constellations I drew were absurd and way less exciting than the ones you brought up. Then we fell asleep.

"I did have sweet dreams that night, as you said I would. I dreamt that a bridge was built across the strait that connected us and that we would visit each other all the time to banter back and forth. When I woke up, I was incredibly happy. And what a sight you made. You looked so small and yet so fierce, curled up in the long, dewy grass under a heap of furs that made you appear like one of the barbarous northmen I had heard so much about. Yet, your face was round and pale as milk, your hair as ruffled as ever, being stirred by the breeze. As I was watching, a strand tickled your nose, and you scrunched up your face. Then you opened those brilliant eyes and stared up at me. In a moment, you had frowned with annoyance and asked me why I was staring. I might have said I didn't know then, but the truth is right then I knew I loved you. It may sound ridiculous, yes, but I loved you from the first day I met you. Nothing like that had ever happened to me before, at least nothing as intense as at that moment. That was when I knew I was in trouble. I couldn't love you—I was supposed to make you my underling someday. So, after you had slipped back into slumber, I silently left back to my homeland. But I never forgot those days in the woods. With you, I felt like I was walking on air, as if the troubles of the world couldn't touch us at all. I missed that so much. And," here Francis gave another laugh, though this one was considerably lighter than the last, "and every time I looked up at the stars, I would always remember you listing them off by name, connecting them with your finger into a constellation that I had never heard of. It made me laugh and cry at the same time. It was rare that I ever had company like yours and even rarer that I felt such an ache in my chest at the thought of someone. Sometimes, I would lay in bed for hours at a time, debating where my loyalty lay.

"My handmaid asked what was wrong with me, and I told her my symptoms. She told me that it sounded like a broken heart. Naturally, I was confused. Didn't someone have to be in love to have their heart broken? Her answer was that I was in love, and that she was happy for me. But I was never happy, not truly, not until a few months ago when my defenses were weak enough for my desires to squeeze through. It was hard to admit that I, France, was suffering from unrequited love for centuries. But when I did and we kissed it was like I was back in those woods with you again, worrying about nothing, feeling like there was no one else in the world, uplifted—in love. That was the first time I had ever thought, 'I'm in love' without feeling hollow inside.

"Your presence filled me with all I needed. I had never known such a wonderful feeling in spite of me searching desperately for it through all my years of random liaisons. All that time I was looking through those woods for something I didn't fully understand. Little did I know that all I needed to do was run back to you after you had chased me away and keep running back. I wish with all my heart that I had, and for that I am sorry. I just want you to know that I love you—you were the only one I could ever love. And thank you for loving me, despite all of my flaws and foolishness. I hope you are happy wherever you are, and, if not, let me leave you to rest with this: 'I do' too."

Francis concluded his speech with a trembling breath. He wouldn't cry. Not anymore. Arthur wouldn't want him to cry.

Nobody spoke for a time. Francis's words were meaningful and struck a cord within them all. It would seem almost insulting to add anymore to what he said, it was so heartfelt. Alfred was standing close to Francis, staring down into Arthur's grave and feeling as if he should have something more to say. But his mind was buzzing with the idea of never seeing Arthur again and his hand refused to remove itself from its place clamped over his mouth, attempting without much success, to suppress the grief-stricken sounds that were battling to escape.

Sensing that no one else was willing to speak, Red wrapped a hand around the shaft of the shovel and yanked it from the snowy ground. She steadied herself, preparing to fill in the grave, but someone grabbed the shovel before she could begin. She turned to see Ludwig staring at him in a solemn sort of way, one hand on the shovel. No words need be exchanged. Red relinquished the shovel and backed away to allow Ludwig some space to work.

The rest of the funeral was a blur to Alfred. He watched Ludwig shovel earth onto Arthur's body, his mind blank. He felt half-asleep, as if this was all some horrible dream and he would soon wake up to see Arthur leaning over him, telling him to get off his lazy ass and help with the cleanup. Minutes masqueraded as seconds, and all too soon, Alfred was staring at a brown patch of disturbed soil—all that remained of who had been a brother, a father, a dear friend, and much, much more. He didn't know how long afterward that others lingered nor what words they had to say. The next thing he knew, a hand was on his shoulder and only he and Ivan were the only ones that remained.

"Fredka?" The question need not be expanded for him to understand what Ivan was asking.

Alfred's eyes dropped back to the bare, lifeless expanse of earth that was Arthur's grave and shook his head. "You can go on, Vanya. I… I need to spend a little more time—"

"I understand," Ivan interjected. He wrapped an arm around Alfred's waist. "I will stay here with you. For however long it takes, I will stay."

In any other circumstance, Alfred might have argued that Ivan, having been injured so critically, should go back and rest. But Alfred simply didn't have the energy to go back and forth with Ivan about his remaining out in the cold. Aside from that, Ivan's warm arm around him was just about the only thing that was keeping him standing.

* * *

The Resistance had raided the stores of the upper echelons of the Organization. There were roomfuls of butchered chickens, pheasants, ducks, and other fowl opposite large, marbled hunks of beef and hog. Whole walls were stacked high with jarred fruits and vegetables, pickled meats, eggs, and nuts. A cache of bread, pies, and other baked goods was discovered in a cupboard just behind the Council's meeting room. Sacks of flour, canisters of sugar, bowls of salt, and pounds upon pounds of grain filled one room nearly to the ceiling. Baskets of fresh eggs and jugs of fatty milk sat adjacent to an indoor grazing field and coop, maintained by sprinklers and an array of warm sun lamps. Around fifteen heads of cattle, thirty pigs, and forty chickens fed on the same slop the Organization had supplied to most of its members. Barrels of wine alone occupied an entire hall. There, Resistance soldiers found what were presumed to be missing members of the Council, drowning themselves in drink. "It smelled horrible," one of the scouts reported. "Then we found out when we tied them up that the cowardly pieces of shit had pissed themselves when they saw us come in."

The discovery was bittersweet for those who had been kept under the Organization's yoke. While the higher-ups had been gorging themselves on quality food, those of a lower standing were being treated no better than cattle. Yet, the survivors were glad to feast on the Organization-manufactured food, filling their bellies like they hadn't been filled for the extent of their captivity. By sundown, the camp was glowing with cookfires, prompting other groups of survivors who had managed to escape the Organization's clutches to come out of hiding and request protection.

Red had made it a strict rule for nobody to bother any of the nations, so they had their meal in a large white tent placed at the edge of the camp, just far enough away from the buzz of activity for them to find a speck of peace. Red had insisted that they be brought their supper, but Feliciano had tired of being isolated. So he went off and got some food himself, visiting a cookfire where two children threw snowballs at each other while their female guardian scolded them and a young girl sat soothing an infant in her arms. The woman happily offered Feliciano a whole roast chicken, but the Italian told her to keep it for herself and the children and took a bowl of stew instead. He didn't think he could stomach much more than that anyway, he was still uneasy from all the action of that day.

Dipping his head in thanks, Feliciano left, but not before throwing one of his own snowballs at the children while the woman tended the stew. When she caught one trying to retaliate, she scolded them as they blamed Feliciano, and the woman told them in disbelief that Feliciano had helped save them and would never do such a childish thing. The exchange made Feliciano chuckle as he walked away, yet there was something sad about it all. Feliciano was no hero. He didn't feel like one nor did he want to be labeled as one. After the battle had ended, he'd had a fleeting hope that perhaps things would somehow go back to normal. It seemed that now, however, his life would never be the same. He had fame to go along with the scars, and he wasn't sure which sickened him more.

He entered the nations' tent to find the others eating in silence. He looked around. "Is… where is Ludwig?"

Everyone seemed to stiffen at the sound of his voice. Feliciano was tired of seeing them act as if hearing speech was the same as hearing a volley of gunshots. They were too afraid to talk, too afraid to mention all they had lost and the seemingly insurmountable challenges that lay ahead. They had all thought, Feliciano included, that after the war was over, the struggle would end. But now they knew the truth: this was only the beginning of a long and arduous journey. After all of the hurt they had caused, all of the chaos they hadn't been able to prevent, could they manage to right the world for good or would they suffer the consequences of the same mistakes? There was no guarantee of peace. There was never going to be, and that was perhaps the hardest thing to face. But, like all bad things, they had to address it sometime.

"He decided to eat outside," Kiku finally answered. He didn't even look up from his food. Feliciano stood there for a moment more, expecting more interaction, before realizing that he was expecting too much.

It was cold outside the tent, with the wind having picked up as soon as the darker clouds had rolled in. Feliciano was met with a faceful of snow, and he sputtered, blinking the icy sting out of his eyes. It took him five minutes to find Ludwig. The man was sitting on the cold cement floor of what remained of a tunnel, half of the curved roof blown away so that it resembled a ragged stone overhang. Feliciano hurried over to him, ducking out of the wind and settling down beside him. The man didn't spare him a glance, didn't even blink. His meal sat cold at his side, barely a couple of spoonfuls gone. Ludwig was staring ahead at the sloping parade of tents, peppered with splotches of flickering orange and smeared with wisps of smoke. It looked almost like a starry night sky in place of the dismally gray one above, the falling snow reminiscent of a meteor shower. So comforting, yet so far away, seemingly impossible to reach.

Feliciano knew Ludwig was absorbed in thought and that he would be less willing to talk about anything if the Italian were to inquire about his silence. So Feliciano sat there and waited, forcing himself to down some broth. Just the fact that it tasted mildly of meat made his stomach turn over, he hadn't tasted something so rich in so long.

At length, Ludwig raised his head and swallowed, saying, "I… can't remember the last time I tasted beef."

Feliciano kept his silence. The statement seemed a prelude to what Ludwig really had to say.

The German sighed and leaned back against the wall, tipping his head upward to watch the snow dance down to meet him. "I keep seeing his face. Shawn's. He looked like… like a deer caught in a snare. He knew he wasn't going to make it, he expected to die, but… he was so scared." He ran a hand through his hair and down his face. "And before that, there was a young kid named Leighton. So young, still a child… he was stabbed in the chest, coughing up blood… he said to save his little sister. Her name is Liddy." He exhaled in a quivering breath, hanging his head and shaking it. "He was choking on his own blood, suffocating, but he still asked… I don't even know if she survived…"

Feliciano moved closer until he was pressed against Ludwig's side, weaving his fingers with the man's own. "There are some things that can't be changed. You need to eat something."

Ludwig shook his head feebly again. "I can't."

Feliciano set his bowl aside and stood, prompting Ludwig to his feet as well. The German was reluctant at first, but when he realized that Feliciano would continue to be persistent, he allowed himself to be pulled to his feet. Feliciano looped his arm with Ludwig's and led him toward the camp. They didn't speak. Feliciano merely guided him through the maze of tents, the German's eyes downcast. He occasionally glanced up when a child ran past or someone laughed, but it was only for a moment before he was looking away again, as if ashamed. Feliciano stopped when they were on the outskirts of the camp, behind the tent that evidently belonged to the woman and children he had received his dinner from. He released Ludwig's hand. Even then the man made no response. Feliciano cupped both sides of Ludwig's face with his hands and raised it until their eyes met. "Luddy, look at all you made possible. All of those people, the ones talking and laughing, you helped save them. If you had done anything different, they might not be here. You saved Kiku… he might not be alive if you had made it your mission to search for this girl. Ludwig, you are a _good man_ , but you aren't all-powerful. Sometimes you must sacrifice something important to you to benefit the majority. You know that. Tell me you know that."

Ludwig stared at Feliciano, feeling as if the Italian's eyes were breaking him apart, piece by piece, until he was left bare and frighteningly vulnerable. Ludwig might have thrown up his walls again if it wasn't for Feliciano's strong, reassuring gaze boring into him. He licked his parched lips and said at last, "Ja… I know." _The whole reason this Uprising even happened was because I was not willing to sacrifice something important to me before._ The thought made him clench his jaw in anger at his own naivety. It was obvious that Feliciano was not convinced. He grabbed Ludwig by the shoulders and spun him around so that he could see the inhabitants of the tent hurling snow at each other, the woman smiling as she cooed to the infant in the young girl's arms. When the baby let out a garbled giggle, Ludwig knew he had never heard anything so beautiful.

"You see them?" Feliciano asked from behind, his hand still resting warmly on his shoulder. "They could have been the ones that didn't make it. But they did. You saved them. Look."

Ludwig considered the children running around before him, his lips twitching in what he came to realize as the beginnings of a smile. Then his gaze drifted over to the girl and the woman and his heart just about stopped.

"Luddy… Ludwig, what are you doing?" Feliciano called after him as Ludwig made his way toward the couple, but the German didn't stop or answer. All he could think of were Leighton's wheezing final words and his face as he looked to Ludwig for help. Before long, he was standing feet from them, both peering up at him with wide, questioning eyes. But Ludwig only looked at the girl. "Leighton," was all he had to say to have the girl sitting bolt upright and blinking in astonishment.

"You… you know my brother?" she asked. The woman beside her looked between the girl and Ludwig, completely puzzled at the exchange. The two children stopped throwing snow to watch. Feliciano appeared beside Ludwig, just as confused. The Italian probably thought Ludwig was going insane. Ludwig carried on all the same.

"Ja," Ludwig said, his heart thumping at his discovery. "I mean, I saw him. He… told me about you. Are you Lidia?"

The girl nodded, a hint of excitement flashing in her eyes. "Yeah. Where is he? Does he want to see me?"

Just as soon as Ludwig's heart was lifting, it was plummeting with a resounding ache to the pit of his stomach, sickening him with the thought of what he now had to admit. He knelt down in front of Lidia, and the girl suddenly became pale, as if she knew what he was going to say before he even began. "I… was one of the last ones to see your brother alive. He fought bravely, but he was stabbed." Lidia had lowered her head, weeping. "He asked me to save you. He told me your name. I meant to go find you, but—"

"I-it's okay. Y-you saved us a-all," Lidia hiccuped. She wiped her face with an overlong sleeve and fixed him with teary blue eyes. "Th-thank you for being there for him."

Ludwig nodded and said, "You look a lot like him, you know. I recognized you at once."

Lidia gave a sad smile. "I know. My mom used to say the same thing. I never believed her."

"Well, she was right," Ludwig said. Lidia was crying again. As much as he wanted to comfort her, he could tell that she was trying her best to keep her emotions at bay. Ludwig could relate. The Uprising had hardened them all. He motioned to the child in her arms. "Where did you find this little one?" He flashed a glance to the woman beside her. "Unless it's yours."

The woman shook her head and Lidia said, "Um… she's mine, actually. Her name's Evelyn."

All Ludwig could do was stare, Leighton's words making his ears ring: _"… I missed her b-birthday. She should be fourteen now."_ Ludwig tried to look happy for her rather than shocked. He was sure Lidia had received enough of those looks already and enough consoling. "Oh? It seems that your traits are strong in your family. She's sure to look like you, maybe even your brother."

"Yeah," Lidia said tearfully, "I'm hoping."

"I will leave you to your supper, then," Ludwig said, getting to his feet. "You are sure to have a long night with that little one."

"Nothing that I can't help with," the woman beside Lidia piped in.

Lidia flashed her a surprised, exasperated look. "Oh no, really, I'm—"

The woman waved her off. "Nonsense, nonsense. You've been through hell. Get some rest. I'll take care of it."

Ludwig dipped his head. "Thank you for taking care of her and her child. It means a lot to me."

The woman nodded. "No problem. You have a good night," her eyes shifted to Feliciano, "You too."

Feliciano managed a smile amid all of his shock and confusion. "Um… yes. Sleep well." The Italian took Ludwig by the arm again and they headed off in the direction of the concrete overhang they had left behind.

"Sir!"

They stopped in their tracks and looked back to see Lidia running up to them. Her arms were empty, and out of the corner of her eye, Feliciano saw her older female companion bouncing the baby on her lap.

"Sir, please," Lidia said, clasping her hands together. "Let Mr… Mr. Kiku know that I'm grateful for all he's done and that I'm alive. He did a lot to help me and should know that his efforts weren't in vain."

Ludwig nodded, astounded at the irony of it all. "I will be sure to give him your message."

Lidia stood there for a moment longer, her eyes drifting and her teeth gnawing at her lower lip. Then she asked hesitantly, almost as if she was afraid to hear the answer, "Is… is he well?"

Ludwig couldn't bring himself to tell her that he had lost his sight, so he opted for telling her an edited truth. "Ja. He is recovering."

Lidia gave a little smile before dipping her head and muttering a quiet "Goodnight" before shuffling back to her camp and taking her baby in her arms again, color returning to her cheeks.

Ludwig was the one to lead the way this time, seizing Feliciano by the arm and pulling him along to the overhang. Worried about the sudden shock Ludwig had received, Feliciano gripped his arm tighter and began, "Luddy—"

But Ludwig didn't want to relapse into another somber conversation. He was feeling rather cheerful, something he had not experienced for a long, long time. "You know what?" he said with a soft smile. "I think I'm hungry."

* * *

Everyone had left the tent, and Yao could understand. Just being in each others' presence was unbearably suffocating. The weight of what they went through… Yao didn't know if it would ever lessen, and that scared him. Nothing would ever be the same. The bit of themselves they lost was gone forever, replaced by something stronger, but hardened. It would take some time to adjust, for them to feel safe enough to let down their walls. Until then, well, they would have to focus on putting the pieces of their world back together—and putting themselves back together as well.

Kiku had been sitting on the edge of his cot for five minutes straight, just staring ahead. His supper lay forgotten on his lap, though a spoon was still in his hand, as if he had gotten distracted from eating. Yao frowned as he watched him.

A minute might have passed before Kiku said, without turning his head, "What is it?"

Yao snapped out of his concerned reverie. "You… how did you…?" Then he trailed off, feeling tactless for mentioning Kiku's blindness in a way that seemed as if he found it a disability.

"I don't hear you eating anymore," Kiku explained. If he was hurt or offended, he didn't show it. "And your breath has gone shallow, like the way it does when you are contemplating something." Finally, Kiku faced him, his eyes surprisingly deeper than Yao had ever seen them. "Something is troubling you. What is it?"

"I… it's about what will happen now that everything's done."

Kiku considered his statement for a moment. Then he said, twirling the spoon in his hand, "That's not really what you're worried about, is it?"

Yao sighed. Why did he even try? Even without his eyesight, Kiku was just as capable of reading the atmosphere as ever. "No, I suppose no—"

"It's about me being blind."

"What?" Kiku fixed him with a gaze that seemed to pierce straight through him. It made Yao shiver. "W-what? No, I—"

"If you are worried whether I will be able to live with this, I can tell you that I will," Kiku interrupted uncharacteristically. He spooned some stew only to let the liquid trickle back into the bowl. "It will take some getting used to, but if you think that after all we have been through that I will give up just because I can't see, then you obviously don't know me."

A pang shot through Yao's heart at that. He set his own supper aside. "Yīnghuā, you know that I would not doubt your resolve after meeting you as a child. You were so independent—"

"Independent, yet you insisted on caring for me as if I was helpless," Kiku said, and, to Yao's alarm, there was a twinge of frustration in the man's voice. Well, Yao mused, if Kiku didn't want him to worry, he was doing a very poor job of proving that he needn't be worried over.

Yao tried not to sound hurt at the accusation. He thought that he had been a good caretaker, after all. But what most disturbed him about Kiku's words was the fact that the man knew they were hurtful, knew that they were blunt, but he seemed to no longer care for subtlety. _Hardened,_ Yao thought with a dry swallow, Kiku still looking through him. "You cannot blame me for worrying," he said. It was a lame excuse, so he followed it with, "You can't possibly expect me to love you and not care about your well-being?"

Kiku's gaze faltered for the first time since Yao had known him. The man returned to the bowl in his lap and spooned up a few mouthfuls of stew. Yao noticed that it took a long time for him to swallow. He watched Kiku eat for a long while, unsure if he should say anything and disrupt his contemplation. Yao just stared and eventually felt himself drifting…

He wanted to sleep, had wanted to ever since everything had settled down. He hadn't even wanted to eat. But every time he had shut his eyes, he could see the pattern of _dimbrightdimbright_ behind his lids, and he was reminded of the crows that had been so eager to feed on his flesh, circling ever downward. Once, Yao had managed to peel on eye open and saw that one of the birds had landed on his numb chest, cocking its head haltingly from side to side, its beady gaze no doubt studying the succulent morsels that were his eyes. When the crow saw that he was conscious, it _quork_ ed loudly and lifted off back into the air where it circled with the rest of its fellows, who had retreated somewhat with the discovery that their next meal was not yet dead.

He had wanted to die—selfishly, Yao thought, as he remembered. But that hadn't occurred to him at the time… nothing had occurred to him outside of the desire to just be free of the pain. The cold had numbed his body to the point that the wind that licked across him felt like nothing more than soft brushes of fingertips, soothing him, seducing him with the warm, painless retreat of sleep. It promised sleep and held back intentions to have him never again wake up. For a long while, his mouth was unbearably dry, his lips parched enough they felt fit to crumble off his face. He longed for water, it was all he could think about—and then the agonizing need was gone to be replaced with a feeling of weightlessness. He was soon drunk on the idea of sleep, strangely comforted with knowing that he would eventually succumb.

Yao was almost there, almost free, the crows spiraling closer and closer overhead. And then there were voices, muffled and incomprehensible, and blurred figures leaning over him, jostling him, keeping him awake. He wanted to bat them away— _Sleep, just let me sleep_ —but he couldn't move and he was lifted. If by death or by the people real or imagined that had found him, he didn't know. He finally got what he wanted. He was told that he had been out for a good two hours. It hadn't seemed nearly long enough. But when he saw Kiku for the first time after the battle he felt disgusted with himself.

 _Tink._ The sound pulled Yao out of his recollections and he looked up to see that the spoon was no longer in Kiku's hand. It had fallen to the floor and the man's fingers were trembling.

"I have lived to see Kinkaku-ji," Kiku said quietly, staring down with empty eyes, "just… not in the way I expected to."

Yao didn't know what to do. He had never seen Kiku act in this manner before. Only when Kiku raked those trembling fingers through his hair, did Yao realize that Kiku was crying.

"I can't see, Yao-chan, and I will do whatever it takes to adapt to that change. But I can never see what this world will become. My last images will forever be of destruction, blood, and death. I can't escape from it." Here he swallowed with much difficulty and took a feathery breath. "There is nothing to replace what my eyes last saw. But even that is not as painful as the fact that… Yao-chan, I will never see your face again. I will n-never see you smile like I was h-hoping to see after this was through. I… I will never be able to see how the sunlight hits your face if we ever come to visit Kinkaku-ji."

 _How could I have ever imagined leaving him?_ Yao thought as he walked over to Kiku's cot, sat down beside him, and pulled the man into his arms. "Then I will describe everything to you, yīnghuā. So you don't have to worry about those images haunting you. We will see that temple, and when we do, I will tell you how beautiful it is and how the sunlight paints my face. And I will tell you how luminous your eyes are, despite your lack of sight. I will do it every day. I will be your vision. I promise you, Kiku."

Kiku sniffed and scrubbed at his eyes. He was embarrassed at crying over something that seemed so trivial. How was he supposed to help remake the world if he could be affected by his own emotions so easily? He lifted his flushed face and took a deep breath to clear the prickly feeling of a sob from his throat. He stared upward, unwilling to look at Yao, and whispered, "Can… can you take me outside?"

Yao pressed his lips into Kiku's hair. "Of course, my yīnghuā." And he helped Kiku to his feet and guided him to the tent flap.

Kiku nearly cried again when he felt a sigh of wind roll across his face. He lifted his face upward again, delighting in the snow that covered his cheeks with cold kisses. Yao had an arm around him, his warm hand tucked against Kiku's belly. Kiku placed his own hand over it.

"Tell me what it looks like," Kiku said, eyes still skyward.

"The gray clouds cover the dark sky, like silver satin over black velvet. The wind pushes them, and every so often they dissolve into wisps before the lantern that is the moon. It is a half moon, rippling like a watery reflection as the clouds swirl over it. Occasionally, there is a break, and you can see the stars. It's as if someone crushed silver in their palm and blew the dust across the sky."

Kiku filled his lungs with the crisp night air. He closed his eyes and rested his head against Yao's shoulder. "I can see it."

"And you will see much more, Kiku," Yao said. "The world will be beautiful again, so beautiful that you will no longer remember how ugly it once was."

* * *

Francis hadn't eaten anything for a day-and-a-half, and Matthew hadn't attempted to force him to. He knew the man would only be sick and he didn't want to give Francis anything else to be stressed about. Instead, Matthew took him back to his cot and let him rest.

Matthew sat on the floor beside Francis, staring at a tent pole but not really seeing it. He didn't know how long he had been sitting there. He had lost all concept of time since Arthur's funeral. It seemed impossible that anything could continue now that the world was left so terribly broken. He had thought after everything was over and they could start their new lives that all would be well eventually. He couldn't believe how stupid he had been to think so.

Nothing would ever be the same—or right. No matter what they did, even if they managed to create a practical utopia, there would always be something off, something missing. There would always be those memories of what the world used to be like and the people who used to live in it. As long as he lived, he would carry the weight of those memories, and they would grow heavier and heavier by the year. But he would not toss them away, forget them—that weight could grow so heavy that it would be agony for Matthew to keep moving, but the images of his friends, allies, lovers and all that they had done together were too precious to consider forgetting. He would keep their memory alive so that generations to come would know how strong and undeniably human they were. For all of the mistakes they had made and all of the things they had done to fix them, they deserved at least that. Matthew and everyone else may not be able to restore the world to what it used to be, but they could shape it in a way that those who were gone would want it to be shaped.

Matthew pushed himself to his feet. He couldn't stand the suffocating feeling of grief the tent seemed to foster. He pulled open the tent flap the moment an icy breeze blew past the tent, and Francis stirred in his cot. Mattew didn't want to see the man's pale, distraught face nor hear the grief in his voice—it would be too much. He left before Francis could wake.

Once outside, Matthew didn't know where to go. Instead of relieving the tension in his muscles, the seemingly endless rows of tents interspersed with smoking ruins only served to remind him of how terribly wounded the world was and how impossible it felt just to imagine putting everything back together.

He decided to head for the ruins of a secluded tunnel, so far displaced from the tents that he could feel like he was really alone. It was all rubble now, and, judging by the scorched quality of the surrounding rock, it had been the victim of a large blast of some sort. It was beyond identification; Matthew had been too busy fighting for his life to ever devote time to getting his bearings. The place smelled acrid with smoke and ash and every few feet there were traces of blood on what used to be the concrete walls. Even so, only the glowing half-moon, shrouded by clouds, was his only company. He was alone. He had never felt such a strong urge to be alone in his entire life. Somehow, the thought comforted him.

He found a stone that was less jagged than its fellows and gingerly took a seat on it. Once again, the moonlight was muddled by the clouds and Matthew looked up to examine the sky, instead finding interest in a dilapidated, crumbling arch of concrete that curved over his head. Apparently, the force of the blast had not been close enough to completely destroy this part of the tunnel wall. The more Matthew examined it, the more he felt as if he were among some ancient ruin, an intruder, an outsider to the events that had transpired there. The battle that had taken place only hours before seemed so surreal, something conjured up by vivid dreams and nightmares. This was a ruin he wanted so much not to relate to or to understand, but he knew he had to accept what the world had become before he could fix it. Was this how the heroes of old felt like? Matthew wondered. Had they been this weary and disbelieving? Had they looked upon the ruins of everything they had known and loved and felt that the world would never be as good as it once was? Were others, generations from now, to sit on these very stones and attempt to grasp the agony of Matthew and all of the others who had fought or would they merely imagine the victors standing triumphant, invincible in all their glory?

As unrealistic as the latter was, Matthew wanted to make a world in which those that came after them would be able to envision something so grand as opposed to something so hopeless. He would have the children and grandchildren of those who had fought be unfamiliar with such hopelessness. There had been too much already, enough to make him sick. It was time that he put an end to it.

The wind died down, Matthew pulling his coat more snugly around himself, and then he heard it. It sounded like a small animal was rummaging among the rubble—perhaps, Matthew thought with a nauseating twist to his stomach, a scavenger searching for the source of the bloody scent that draped over the area like a wet woolen blanket. He stood, venturing toward the sound. He didn't want any animal feeding on a body, Resistance or otherwise.

He didn't have to move far; a few steps later, and the culprit jumped up so fast from behind a boulder that it was a miracle Matthew didn't have a heart attack. She was little, around ten. The moonlight hit her scorched hair, making the blonde locks shine gold and her blue eyes glitter. Matthew's mouth fell open.

"Ollie?"

The girl stepped nervously out of the shadows. "Wh-who?"

Matthew's face fell. It was a girl, but the relation to Ollie stopped there. She was around seven or eight, with brown hair and what used to be two pigtails, one shorn off close to her head and the other draping over her shoulder. Her big brown eyes blinked up at him in confusion. Matthew rubbed at his head, trying to come back to his senses.

_Am I delusional now?_

"Sir?" the girl ventured.

Matthew shook his head. "I'm fine. I just thought… never mind. What are you doing out here on your own? Is there someone with you?"

"No," the girl said sheepishly, kicking a pebble across the space between them. It hit Matthew's ankle. "Sorry," she said hastily, her blush practically glowing.

"It's all right," Matthew said, sitting down again. "What's your name?"

"E-Elle," she said, her voice quivering with the cold.

Matthew patted the rock. "Come and sit with me, Elle. It'll be warmer if we're sitting beside each other."

Elle hesitated a moment, glancing around as if expecting someone she knew to see and reprimand her. When she was sure they were alone, she walked over to him and situated herself on the rough stone a foot away.

"How old are you?" Matthew asked to break the awkward silence between them.

"Eight," she replied, her eyes wandering.

"You're not in trouble," Matthew assured her, scooting closer. "I won't tell anyone that you were here if you don't want me to. Why are you here anyway? It is a bit cold to be walking around."

Elle blinked her big eyes up at him. "Well, sir, you're out here."

Matthew smiled. It was the first genuine one he'd made in a while. "You're sharp, you know that? It's a good quality to have. But really, why?"

Elle wrung her hands. "Um, well, i-it was for a friend."

"A friend?" Matthew said, imagining someone laying injured on a cot in one of the tents back at camp. "Are they hurt?"

Elle shook her head, sniffing. At first, Matthew assumed that she was indeed catching a cold, but then she made a strangled, whimpery sound and began to wipe at her face with her sleeve. "Elle?"

"Sh-she's dead," Elle answered, and Matthew felt his gut drop with guilt at bringing up the topic. Elle sniffed again, the moonlight turning the tears that ran down her cheeks to silver. "She w-was hurt during the b-battle and she told me to look for s-something before she… she…"

Matthew covered her hand with his own as she hid her face in her elbow, sniffling pitifully. "I'm sorry." It sounded like something off a broken record, but it was almost habitual to him now. He felt feeble just saying it, as if he shouldn't even have bothered. He wondered vaguely how many times Elle had heard the same and when she had become deaf to it. He knew he himself had a long, long time ago. To make up for it, he continued, "Did you find what she asked for?"

Elle hiccuped a few times before taking her arm from her face and digging in the pocket of her coat, which was so small on her that the sleeves rolled up past her wrists. Her fist reemerged, trembling, the fingers clenched so tightly that Matthew half expected her to change her mind and return the item to her pocket. Perhaps her friend's death was still too raw a memory. Maybe this item was something she felt should only be shared between her and her friend. Elle's friend could have told her that it was meant to be private. She could have—

Elle's lips moved, but Matthew couldn't hear her speaking. He seemed to lose all biological function; he could swear that his heart stopped beating. Only when Elle's small hand grasped his shoulder and shook it so hard that he almost lost his balance. He had to catch himself on the cold stone, and he could tell by the worried look on Elle's face and how warm his shoulder was beneath her hand that he had been staring unresponsively for at least a full minute. At once, everything returned to him—the solidity of the rock he was sitting on, the icy breeze that sliced across his skin, and, especially, the sight of Elle's round brown eyes gazing fearfully up into his own, still red and watery with her grief. But he only spared her a second's glance before he was once again staring at the object that rested in the center of her palm.

"They," Matthew licked his dry lips, "they look like…"

"They're glasses," Elle filled in for him when it became clear that his ability to form words had fled him. She crooked her head a bit as she studied him. "Sir, are you gonna be okay?"

It took a few long seconds for Matthew to remember how to nod. "Yeah… yeah, I was just—wh-whose glasses did she say those were?"

Elle shrugged. "Some blond man who helped her. His hair was kinda long-ish and he was wearing black." Elle peered up at Matthew, her tiny callused fingers curling back around the frame that had been split in two, the lenses that had been all but blown out. "But there are a lot of people who look like that. Do you know him?"

Matthew couldn't answer. His mind was filled with the resounding chirp of _"Didn't you used to have glasses, Mister?"_ and _"I could find them. I think I might have saw them somewhere."_

Elle seemed to sense that he was struggling with something—an awareness she rightfully should not have acquired until she was much older. The words were caught in Matthew's throat, a grateful "Yes", but they clung there in an almost suffocating fashion until he was forced to swallow them. The next words came up much easier, though they tasted bitter on his tongue. "I… yes. I know him."

Elle's face lit up even in the cloudy darkness. "You do? Can you take me to him? Please?"

What he said next could have been said by a stranger. "No. He's, um… sick."

"Sick?"

"Yeah. Very sick. They won't let anyone but me see him."

"Oh." Elle's eyes went downcast. Her fingers opened again, brushing gingerly over the broken frames. "Will he get better soon?" Matthew could read through the hopeful tone in her voice; she continued to stare at her lap, as if she already knew the answer to what he assumed she considered a very common question. A prickly lump began to obstruct his airway and he cleared his throat.

"N-no. I'm sorry." _What the hell is wrong with me?_ "You can give them to me and I'll make sure he gets them. Don't worry." _Why can't I just tell her the truth?_

Elle nodded and turned over the frames in her hand before reluctantly turning them over. Her eyes remained on them even after Matthew had pocketed them, as if they were her last connection to her friend. Just as soon as Matthew read her expression, however, she was smiling sadly up at him. "Make sure you take really good care of it, okay? She really wanted him to have it."

"I will," Matthew croaked and said, before his emotions could get the better of him, "Do you want me to walk you back?"

Elle considered his offer for a moment before shaking her head and sliding off the rock to her feet. "Nah, I can get there on my own. 'Sides, you need to give those glasses to that man as soon as possible. He might be missing him."

She was gone before the sob Matthew had been holding in for most of their conversation could escape. He only allowed one to manifest; the others he held down. He didn't deserve to cry over Ollie. He couldn't even save her, one little girl. And worse—he couldn't admit to her friend that he even knew her. Deep down he had wanted with all his heart to tell Elle the truth, but he didn't have it in him to bring up the fact that he hadn't been able to protect Ollie. That he didn't deserve his glasses back. He could imagine Ollie, lying on her deathbed, with no other worry than for Matthew and his missing glasses. And what had Matthew been doing? Struggling with his own troubles, lamenting about how hard it would be for him and the others to fix all the shit they had caused. He hadn't given one thought to Ollie. He felt sick.

Not only were the glasses useless now, but they were also a reminder of what could have been; Ollie could have been the one to find him after the battle and give him the glasses he really didn't need but now mattered more than he could ever describe. For that reason, he decided to bury the frames in one of the remaining pure patches of snow around. He left after saying a silent prayer, feeling, once again, like he couldn't do enough.

He thought that he had left Francis alone far too long and ran back to their shared tent, warming his body up as he went. He was so lost in his thoughts of Ollie and Francis and what awaited for them in the morning that he just about jumped three feet in the air when he saw Francis leaning against the tentpole outside. Francis paid no mind to how startled he was. He merely said, his eyes red-rimmed and dark with fatigue, his shoulders slumped so much that one could assume he was bearing a great weight on his back only he could see. Take me to see Arthur," his voice a little firmer than it was before. Matthew noticed that he had cleaned himself up a bit, even tended to his hair. "I can't… leave him with the image of me so weak. He would probably haunt my dreams if I did."

As determined as he was, his body was far too fragile to bend to his will. Francis doubled over, and Matthew ran forward to catch him just before he completely collapsed. Giving the man's hair a few comforting strokes, he proceeded to drag him back into the tent, lowering him onto his cot and tucking the blankets in around him. Francis was so exhausted, he didn't even react.

"I don't think he would, Papa," Matthew murmured, climbing into his own cot. "He would understand."

* * *

Ivan stayed with Alfred, as he had promised. He stood beside him until the sun went down and the stars came out. He stayed and did not speak. The moon was at its apex by the time Alfred's legs gave out, plunging his knees into the snow.

Only then did he say, "Fredka, it is time to rest."

Alfred took a few, quivering breaths, wiping his eyes on his sleeves, before he allowed Ivan to help him to his feet. They returned to the camp, arm in arm, the silence between them unbroken. The other nations saw them pass. When they caught sight of Alfred, pale and forlorn in his grief, they chose to assume a similar silence.

Alfred faintly recalled Ivan asking someone to show them to an empty tent. As soon as he was out of the wind and settled on something soft, the inescapable weight of sleep pressed down on him. He dreamed of nothing.

He woke what felt like minutes later with Ivan's arm wrapped securely around him and his warmth against his back.

"You are awake," the Russian said. His voice lacked the gravelly rasp of sleep.

"Y-yeah." No sooner had the affirmation left his lips than his head began to pound. His hand shot upward to rub at a temple. "Damn… I feel like shit."

"Then you should sleep a little longer," Ivan suggested, his arm growing tighter around his waist. "You will be unable accomplish much if you are not properly rested."

Despite how much his body craved the suggestion, Alfred forced himself to sit up, only then realizing, as a cold breeze sliced through the tent, how sopping wet his clothes were. "W-what the hell? Why am I covered in sweat?"

Ivan propped himself up on an elbow, the cot creaking as he did so. "You were feverish last night. I decided to lay with you to help you break your fever. It seems to have worked."

"No kidding?" Alfred said as he wiped his sticky hands off on the blankets. "I didn't even know I was sick."

"Your mind was… occupied."

"Guess so…" Unbidden tears began to fill Alfred's eyes. He didn't understand why until the memories of Arthur's body returned to him, Arthur wrapped in a grimy white sheet, being rolled into a grave, the dirt heaped over top of him, the way his heart had felt like it was torn in two as he watched…

Ivan heard Alfred sniffle and saw him wipe at his eyes with his knuckles. "Fredka…" he began, but Alfred, utterly sick at the idea of condolences, cut him off.

"I'm going to go see Artie again." He swung his legs over the edge of the cot and lifted himself up on shaky feet.

It would be at a time like this that Ivan would have protested, but he knew that, with or without him, Alfred would go to the cemetery. And he would rather he be with him than allow the man to go alone. With that in mind, he slid out of bed himself and tossed some dry clothes Alfred's way. "Change out of those, at least. Going out there that wet will get you sick, and, trust me, you will remember then."

Alfred bypassed the others' tents and so did Ivan. He knew Alfred was in no mood to be ordered around and Ivan respected that. They found a soldier to take them to the site. Alfred didn't speak to him nor did he spare more than a handful of glances at him, but he held his hand, which was more than Ivan could ask for. The closer they got to the winter-withered cherry blossom, the harder Alfred's grip became.

Red must have ordered a path cleared through the snow to Arthur's grave, and Ivan was grateful for it. If anything, he didn't want Alfred to become ill again. Alfred gave no consideration to this. He only had eyes for the tree at the top of the hill.

"Hey, Alfred!"

It took everything in Alfred to stop. He wouldn't have if it hadn't been Red who was talking. "What is it, Red?"

" _Tch_ , don't sound so uptight," she replied, her voice closer now. "Just let up for a minute and come here. I have something I want you to see."

Ivan could hear Alfred huff up ahead. "Show me later, Red. I'm not in the fucking mood."

"Hey now, don't fucking _swear_. I've got a—"

"Alfred?"

Something about the child's voice made Alfred stop dead in his tracks. A consuming tremble rolled like a massive wave through his body, squeezing at his heart and flattening his lungs. He wanted so desperately to turn and see the owner of that voice, to relieve the agonizingly hopeful ache in his chest, but he was just as reluctant to do so, to prove his assumptions false. But when Alfred heard Ivan say, "Fredka," in a voice just as breathless as he felt, his muscles took over for his conflicted mind and had him turning on the spot.

What he saw couldn't be possible—no… no, how could it be? What was his brain trying to do to him, torturing him like this? He was still ill, yes, that had to be it. He was so ill that he was hallucinating, because none of this could be real. Maybe he had died peacefully in his sleep and was being confronted by an image so exhilarating that it could only belong in another world, where impossibilities and miracles were the every day. Yes, he was gone, he had left Ivan and Matthew and everyone behind, because nothing else could explain why standing down the shovel-carved path in such surreal perfection was a boy—a boy who was the exact embodiment of Arthur. Knobby-kneed and almost frightfully thin, his eyebrows just as bushy as ever, his green eyes brighter and more innocent than Alfred had ever seen them, the boy stared at him with a sheepish expression that had been foreign to his adult double. He was wringing his hands and chewing his lips, the soft skin there devoid of scars and indescribably fragile.

"Th-that's your name, right?" the child asked meekly. "Alfred?"

Alfred could feel his eyes stinging. "Red… w-what is this?" he said before he could completely break down.

Red, who was standing a few feet behind the boy with her hands in her pockets, smiled her rare half-smile. "Merry Christmas, Dad."

Before Alfred could stop to make sense of the situation, he was running down the hill, nearly tripping in the process, arms outstretched, until he reached the boy and embraced him with a sob. _It can't be you… it can't be you… it can't be,_ he kept thinking as his arms grew tighter and tighter around the child, so pure he felt the need to protect him from everything. But from the moment he touched him, Alfred knew, he _knew_ it was true. A warm flush coursed through him from head to toe and his heart swelled to the point he thought it would burst with joy. Somehow, some way, this was Arthur.

Finally, after a feeble, "A-Alfred, I can't b-breathe," he finally relented and moved back to view at arms-length Arthur in miniature. "O-oh God," Alfred breathed, blinking tears from his eyes. "He's… he looks just like—Red, how… what…?"

Red had been watching them with an expression of warmth, and, for a moment, Alfred thought he saw her brush a few strands of ruddy hair out of her face in what suspiciously looked like a movement meant to wipe away tears. As soon as she saw him gazing at her, however, she took up the steely façade she had worn for as long as Alfred had known her. "We found him among the captives. He just appeared out of nowhere, no scars, no bruises, not even a scratch. He was just—there. Like he'd walked straight out storybook or something. Just—"

"—perfect," Alfred finished for her, and the boy stared at him with wide, bewildered eyes.

"Are you okay?" he asked. He appeared so endearingly guilty. "You're crying…"

Alfred sniffed wetly and thumbed the tears from beneath his eyes. "Y-yeah. I'm just so happy you're here, Arthur. That's your name, right? Arthur?"

The boy was wringing his hands again. "Er… yes, if you want it to be. I-I really don't have a name."

This statement, for some odd reason, made Alfred's heart do a jubilant back-flip. He rightfully knew he should not feel so ecstatic about something so sad, but the inexplicable feeling of weightlessness caused him not to question. Just as he had known that this boy was Arthur, he knew that this boy who had appeared so suddenly and serenely, without a name or any identity to speak of, was here to be who Arthur once was—not to replace Arthur, but to continue his legacy.

Alfred didn't know how long Ivan had been behind him before he sensed his presence. The man was staring down at the youthful Arthur, his violet eyes as wide with shock as he had ever seen them. "I do not believe it. Is he…?"

Red nodded, Alfred having been overcome with tears again, taking Arthur into his arms and turning so that Ivan could see him, the person who meant everything to him returned. "Yeah, it's him all right. It can't _not_ be. I mean, look at him."

"Doesn't he look exactly like him, Vanya?" Alfred asked, hiccuping and mopping his eyes with his sleeve. "D-doesn't he?"

The little Arthur peered fearfully up at Ivan's massive form, tugging nervously at the hem of his sweater. "D-don't you cry as well."

Ivan felt all the breath go out of him at the sound of the boy's voice, so strikingly familiar, yet not as stuffy as his counterpart's. He smiled sweetly and extended a gloved hand down to pat the boy's head, observing the plaid earmuffs he was wearing as he did so, noting how the old Arthur had favored the design and had had many garments patterned in the same way. _Oh God, it is him._ "I will not cry, little one. You are very cute—has anyone told you that?"

The boy relaxed a bit and shook his head.

"Well," Alfred said, giving a feathery laugh, "you are."

The way little Arthur wrinkled his nose in distaste captured the exact image of his older self. Alfred could feel his eyes stinging again.

"Yeah," Red began, kicking mindlessly at the snow. She wasn't used to emotional interactions, but Alfred got the sense that she was trying to suppress her own sensitivities. "I don't know how, but he's here. In pretty damn good condition, too. Da—Alfred, uh," she scratched the back of her head awkwardly and glanced away as Alfred looked up, "f-forgive me for interrupting your visit to the cemetery, but, um, _ahem_ , I meant to bring him to you earlier, but you were asleep and by the time I got to your tent this morning, you were gone, so I—"

"Red!"

They all whipped their heads around, little Arthur included, to see Matthew and Francis hobbling up the path toward them. Francis was leaning on Matthew, looking much better than he had the night before.

"Hey, Red. Good morning," Matthew greeted, his face brightening at seeing Alfred up and about as opposed to his previous state. "Someone was asking for your help. They said to meet them in—" He noted Alfred's red, teary eyes and stopped in his tracks. "What's wrong?" he asked cautiously, expecting something bad, possibly worse than what they had already encountered.

"Nothing's wrong," Alfred replied, pushing himself to his feet. He bent to pick little Arthur up, and only then did Matthew and Francis realize his presence. Knowing that this had rendered them momentarily speechless, Alfred seized the opportunity and shouted, beaming and propping the flummoxed Arthur up on his hip, "It's him, Mattie. _It's Arthur_!"

They stared and stared—not once did they blink, so mesmerized were they. Then, Francis, who had been relying so much on Matthew for support, regained the strength in his knees and was running, running past Matthew and Red, until he was close enough to be caught in the gaze of those brilliant green eyes. "Arthur?" he breathed, his eyes filling with tears.

Little Arthur appeared uncomfortable under Francis's intense, hopeful stare, but answered nonetheless, "Y-yes, sir. That's my name."

Alfred didn't know how long they remained there, marveling over a boy who was at a loss as to why he was so incredibly dear and special. There was a point when Francis seized Arthur and held him for nigh on five minutes. There were petty quarrels over who would raise him, and it was eventually settled that they all should have a part. After all, they were the ones who had known Arthur best.

The sun was a glowing golden strip along the ruined rooftops before little Arthur complained of an empty stomach and it was agreed that they all head back to camp for supper. But then Alfred remembered what he had come to Arlington for in the first place.

"Al?" Matthew asked when he saw that his brother wasn't following.

"I… I have something to do here still," Alfred replied, craning his head toward the crest of the hill. Matthew nodded in understaning, Ivan warned, "Do not stay out for too long,", and Francis said, eyes glistening as he held little Arthur on his back, "Tell him that I'm better now. I won't cry anymore. Not unless it's for a good reason."

Alfred assented to fulfill the last request and then asked "Can he come with me?" of Francis, gesturing to Arthur. "I want to show him, you know…"

Francis hesitated at first, and Alfred thought he heard Matthew give a reluctant mutter, but Francis's eyes locked with his own for a long moment. Then he whispered something in little Arthur's ear, the boy nodded, and the next moment he and Alfred were standing alone among the snowy headstones, watching the others's heads disappear over the white drifts.

"Come on," Alfred said at last, offering his hand. "I have something to show you."

Together, they climbed the rest of the path, little Arthur keeping studious silence the whole way. His hand was warm in Alfred's own, as if his entire being was aware of the sensitive nature of what he was about to see and how it affected the man guiding him. It was like the spirit of Arthur, the small part that lived on within him, knew and meant to provide comfort. Alfred's throat became tight and scratchy as he neared the grave.

Then they were standing before the disturbed patch of earth beneath which Arthur's body lay, the mound covered in a light dusting of snow, giving the appearance of powdered sugar. He knew if he had described the same to Arthur, he would have scoffed. The thought only made him miss the man all the more.

It didn't help that someone had hammered a makeshift wooden cross into the ground, fashioned out of the debris of the battle which had killed him. Alfred didn't know who had done it; all he knew was that he was too goddamned weak to handle it, and he was crying again, like he had been for far too long. Beside him, little Arthur peered up and said, "Alfred, please don't cry."

Alfred sniffed and shook his head. He had to be strong. This boy was relying on him now. "I'm sorry, um… this was just someone… really special to me."

Little Arthur squeezed his hand and, for the first time in too long, he squeezed back. "They must be. Who were they?"

Alfred gave him a watery smile. "Someone very much like you." Arthur smiled back and Alfred lifted him up, once again balancing him on his hip. The boy felt so wonderfully warm next to him, so alive. "He was a great man. You would have liked him."

Little Arthur studied the grave all the more closely, almost with a curious air. "Really? Was he famous?"

Alfred could hear Arthur's voice in his head right then: _I was the bloody British Empire, the ruler of the waves, Angleland—home of the Anglo-Saxon descendants of the seafaring Vikings. The mighty England._ "He was my brother," Alfred replied simply with a wistful, quivery sigh. "And a very special man." He took a deep breath, then, steeling himself for what was to come. There was a lot of work ahead, possibly decades upon decades worth of building the world back up just to where it used to be. But little Arthur deserved it—all of the people who had been affected by the Uprising deserved it. And, who knew? If Arthur had reappeared as a fledgling nation, there could be many others out there like him right then, looking for guidance among the destruction, instilled with a desire to lead and grow, just like their deceased counterparts had been. _But they weren't dead. They never died,_ Alfred thought. The sun sank below the distant hills, the snow reflecting the cloudless sky, splashed with delicate palettes of pink and orange and satin violet. The light made the spires and towers of the the distant crumbling buildings look aglow, like some divine city. Until that moment, Alfred hadn't realized that world they knew hadn't died; it was still there, under all of the dust and rubble and sorrow, and still as stunningly beautiful.

Little Arthur was slipping down his side and Alfred bumped him up onto his hip again. He peered into those boundless green eyes saw within them the hope he had lost. "You know what? There are some other people I think you would like. Why don't you run down to the bottom of the hill and wait for me there and then I'll introduce you? There's something I have to do before we go back. Okay?"

Little Arthur didn't question. He seemed to understand, to know. He slid down Alfred's side, his shoes crunching into the snow, giving his hand another reassuring squeeze. He left in silence, just as Alfred knew Arthur would have, kicking drifts of snow along the way. There was a moment when Alfred thought he heard him talking to himself, perhaps to someone near him, but when he observed the landscape, he found nobody present. A warm, genuine smile stretched across Alfred's face, one that he thought he had forgotten how to make.

He knelt down before Arthur's grave, his heart once again heavy. "Artie, I know I shouldn't be here again. You'd say it was overkill and to get my ass to work. Well, I have something I meant to tell you yesterday: I'm glad you fought for me when you found me, and I'm glad it was you who raised me. No matter what anyone told you, you were a wonderful brother. And… I know I was a bit of an asshole about, you know, my revolution and everything, but… you have to know that I missed you more than anything. And when you finally agreed to even talk to me again, I was elated. I may not have shown it, but just hearing your voice again was enough to help me sleep at night. If you never thought that I loved you as much as I did when I was younger, know that I did and still do. As long as I live, no one will ever be as special to me as you were. I should have told you all of this before, but you know how I am—you were really the only one who ever did know. I know I sound cheesy and all and that you usually would have protested hearing all of this gushy nonsense if you were alive. I figure now is a good time to tell you, seeing as you can't really say anything against it. So, um… there it is. And, uh, about the kid—goddammit," he wiped at his eyes again, not believing that his emotions were once again getting the better of him, "look at me. I know you wouldn't approve, but it's just that… I r-really miss you, Artie." He wiped his face. It seemed that his cheeks were chafing from doing it so much. "I know it'll be hard without you. It a-always has been. But I'll do everything that you w-won't be able to do, okay? I'll take care of everything for you. You just… rest easy, all right? And I'll take care of your little doppelganger. I'll make sure he knows everything about you and how much you meant to me. He'll have a good life. I promise; I'll raise him as well as you raised me. I promise you, Artie. With all of my heart." He pulled off his glove and pressed his bare hand to the earth. He thought he felt his fingertips tingle with Arthur's presence. He felt a familiar pressure behind his eyes and made to stand before he could lose himself again, but something caught his eye.

Someone had laid a stone at the base of the cross, the same someone, Alfred suspected, who had planted the wooden planks there. It looked to have been part of a building, ornately carved, with what appeared to be half of an angel's wing decorating the front. It could have been from a cathedral, one of the only intact pieces left perhaps, but it was the words engraved within the delicate stone feathers that truly moved him. His eyes scanned back and forth over the letters, carefully carved with an echo of calligraphy, and he found himself not caring when he felt liquid warmth run down his face.

_ARTHUR KIRKLAND_

_Part of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Ireland_

_Commander of the Former British Empire, Pioneer of the Old World and the New_

_Captain, Gentleman, Leader, Friend, Dedicated Lover, and Beloved Brother_

_The Nation and State of England_

_Rest in Peace_

_Or So It Goes_

The last line had Alfred on the verge of sobs. And then he heard little Arthur call, "Alfred? When are we leaving? I'm starving!"

"Coming, Artie!" Alfred answered. He never thought that he'd be able to say Arthur's nickname like that again, and the thought made his heart swell with joy, lifting it from the pit of his stomach where it had lingered in sorrow for far too long. He turned back to Arthur's grave and whispered, "Despite the whole black magic thing, I know you'll see your brothers again. What you did was so selfless… Oh yeah, and Francis says he'll stop being a baby about you and all. So.. yeah." He heard little Arthur call again and shouted, "Don't worry, Art, I'm finished! I'll be right there! See ya, Art. Have a nice nap. You deserve it."

* * *

_Arthur watched Alfred go, rolling his eyes. "I've never heard anything so ridiculously corny in my life."_

_A tall woman appeared in a mist behind him, her blonde curls draping over his shoulder. "Don't speak as if I did not see the tears."_

_Arthur feigned scratching at his nose so he could wipe his sticky face, although he knew Britannia would notice. She had always been a very observant mother. He changed the subject. "We never lost anything. We grew and we gained. With the knowledge that they reaped, they will sow a new world. There will be struggle and conflict and disagreement, but once they see that silver glass behind the rain I don't doubt that this world will be grander than anything that ever has or will be."_

_Britannia chuckled. "That's a great deal of wishful thinking for someone whose absence may dim the tide."_

_Arthur sighed. "Too true. In all honesty, if there wasn't a struggle related to the lack of my presence I would be rather offended."_

_"Tut, tut, wishing misfortune on your comrades, Arthur." Britannia smirked, looking so very much like her son. "Death has not changed you. I wonder if such traits are strong enough to be passed on."_

_Britannia's words brought forth an image of the child he had seen with Alfred at the grave mere moments before. "From the looks of things, I think they are."_

_Nostalgia seized Britannia, expressed in a long, wistful exhale. "He looks exactly like you. Cute as a spring toadstool and just as determined to grow in a place so dark and difficult."_

_Arthur snorted. "Your similes are as ambiguous as I remember them. For someone so old, you also have not changed in the slightest."_

_"You know us Brits. Stubborn to the end." She gave Arthur's hair a comforting stroke and said, "It seems as if our time here is up. Eternity calls, my love."_

_Arthur took a deep breath and emptied his lungs in one reluctant breath. "I suppose so." He felt Britannia's presence fade beside him, her soft hair, entwined with honeysuckles, disappearing from his shoulder. He took one last good look at the place where Alfred had gone and the twilight that had spread like a protective blanket of velvet over the landscape. "I'll miss you as well, Alfred. You insufferable git."_

_He breathed in once more, feeling the air tingle around him. One moment, he was being sucked upward, up, up, up, his body weightless, and then he was swathed in warmth, being rocked side-to-side by the cradle of an ocean he had visited once before. Everything was golden, the water was clear and calm, and there was no sign of thunderheads on the smoldering horizon._

_"Arthur!"_

_He heard his name and drifted around to see the same golden galley, shining oars parting the smooth water of their own accord, his mother with her trident, lion, and helm at the bow, his brothers waving and shouting on the deck. The sound of the warm breeze gusting against the spun-gold sails was one of the most wonderful melodies he'd ever heard, rising and falling in tune to what Arthur thought was a rendition of "The Fiddler's Green."_

Home _, Arthur thought, his heart fluttering._ I'm going home.

_This time, unlike the last, he could swim. And he swam and swam, felt like he could swim to the edge of the world and back. But there was no edge, and, somewhere, beyond this shimmering ocean and eternal sunset there lived Alfred and Francis and all the people and things he knew and loved. He would leave, yes, but he would always be a part of life, that child of time that had no beginning or end. No edge—just a circle._

**The End.**

_**So It Goes.** _

* * *

Translation:

 _Yīnghuā_ -Cherry blossom

Reference:

"So it goes" is an important saying repeated throughout the book _Slaughterhouse 5_. I don't want to give too much away about it for all those who have yet to read it, but the quote implies that, despite the belief that death is final, a person is rendered immortal by the memories they leave behind. Thus, in essence, they never really die at all.

A Word From the Writer: Holy crap am I drained! I thought this would never happen, but, huzzah, it has! This was a a year and 9-month-long endeavor that I couldn't have done without the support of my readers. I thank all of those especially who have stuck with me from March 2013 to today, Christmas 2014, to the very end. Your reviews and enthusiasm mean so much to me and inspired me to finish this monster of a fic. As sad as I am to see this end, I believe it is high time that I move onto bigger and better things, but what happened in this plot line will always have a place in my heart. Granted, a gigantic place in my heart, but I'll work through it. Because, during the almost 2 years I've dedicated myself to writing this, I've been stockpiling a bunch of new plot lines and one-shots ready to post. Here are a couple that I will be posting next:

Supersize Me

An adult store. Russia is looking for a new toy that won't break. America and Canada are looking for a new toy that won't disappoint. Needless to say, they all find what they're looking for. Russia/America/Canada. One-shot(?).

All Boxed Up

13 nations discover that being locked in a tiny room by a crazy, fangirling Hungary isn't exactly as unfortunate a situation as they thought. Orgy. (Next series)

Yes, they're both smut... because I missed writing all the pervy stuff. ;)

Love to you all, and I'll see you when I post my _Supersize Me_ one-shot on New Year's Day. In the meantime, happy holidays!


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